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Copyright, 1923, 
by 

C. F. HOLLAND 
All rights reserved. 


FEB 27 73 


©C1A698433 


<3.T?. 'yiOcfc/v, I J /<) 2.V 


CONTENTS 

Page 

I. Playing the Game. 5 

II. Scarlet .133 

III. Pranks and Prayers . 157 

IV. The Repentance of Shep .. .. 179 

V. A Woman Promoter .193 

VI. The Deserted Twenty . 209 

VII. Tha Whippoorwills.229 






























V 








DEDICATED 

TO 

Mrs. T. E. Redmond 
Who introduced me to her who later 
became my wife. 




ONE 


'J a HE Wolverine was speeding westward. 

In the club smoker two men fell casually 
into a conversation, which soon developed a 
congeniality of spirit. 

“So you are a minister, are you?” queried 
young Mr. Archibald Carew. 

“Yes,” smilingly replied the Reverend Chester 
Baker. “May I ask your profession?” 

“Oh, I have none—really. I’m just an ordi¬ 
nary story writer. Being footloose, I simply 
wander from place to place. Occasionally I 
chance upon an incident, or a person, that 
furnishes material for a story. Once-in-a-while 
I succeed in getting a story accepted, and get 
a little money for it, which keeps me going until 
I strike another windfall, or else am forced to 
draw on my bank account.” 

“You are not, then, wholly dependent upon 
your pen?” 

“No. My parents left me a small inherit¬ 
ance, the interest from which helps.” After a 
moment he added, “I never would have picked 
you out for a minister.” 

“Why?” 


8 


PLAYING 


“For several reasons. You don’t look like 
one. You are smoking. You are dressed like 
a man of the world, if you will pardon my 
frankness, and my seeming impoliteness for 
remarking the cut of your clothes in general, 
and that red necktie in particular. I am won¬ 
dering if you are en route on some spiritual 
mission.” 

“No, I am taking my vacation.” 

“I might have guessed that. Perhaps,” he 
laughed, “your flock would still retain you as 
their shepherd, if they could see you now, but 
I doubt it. You impress me as a pretty com¬ 
panionable chap, although I never took much 
stock in preachers—again your pardon for my 
frankness. They are”—Carew hesitated a mo¬ 
ment, then continued—“but I’ll stick to gener¬ 
alities—questions of doctrine, as they say. That 
old Methodist doctrine of ‘being divinely called 
to preach’ sounds very much like a fairy tale to 
me. I think it would be nearer the truth to say 
‘financially called.’ I notice that preachers 
usually answer the loudest call, because it is 
easier to hear a three thousand dollar ‘call’ than 
a fifteen-hundred dollar one. But maybe I’m 
treading on your corns. You don’t believe in 
this ‘divine call’ business, do you?” 


THE GAME 


9 


The clergyman replied quietly: “I see that 
you are one of the great throng of men who 
misjudge the minister. Certainly I believe in 
the ‘divine call/ but likely not in the narrow 
sense in which you view it. Suppose we call it 
a particular inspiration. Even in your case the 
idea applies. Something inspires you to write. 
The same something inspires another man to 
become a lawyer, another to become an elec¬ 
trician, and so on/’ 

“I confess you rather interest me. As I told 
you, I am somewhat of a pirate. I steal mate¬ 
rial for my stories and get the reward. To use 
your church expression, I feel myself ‘called’ to 
get a story from you, since you appeal to me as 
being different from other preachers I have seen.” 

“I may or may not be. One thing is true, I 
have endeavored to keep from getting narrow. 
There are many narrow-minded men in the 
pulpits. I have done my best to steer clear of 
that. You referred to my checkered suit and 
to my red necktie a while ago. If that is of 
any meaning to you perhaps you will be sur¬ 
prised to learn that I preached 10 my own con¬ 
gregation last Sunday night, attired precisely 
as I am now. I pride myself that I am not so 
very much different from other men. You and 


10 


PLAYING 


I are alike in at least one thing. I have been 
guilty of writing some short stories myself. 
Like you, I’m a pirate. I’ll make you a prop¬ 
osition. We will tell each other something ol 
our past. We will compose thereof two stories, 
submit them to the same publisher, and see 
which one is accepted. The one whose story 
is refused, must contribute one hundred dollars 
to any charitable cause the other shall designate. 
If both stories should be accepted then we will 
go fifty-fifty on the donation. We will toss a 
quarter, I’ll take heads, and thereby see which 
one of us relates first.” 

“Great Mackinaw! You a preacher and 
offering to gamble?” 

“You heard me,” and so saying the Reverend 
Chester Baker flipped the coin. 

“I win,” cried young Mr. Archibald Carew, 
“and now for your story.” 

The setting is in Missouri. In a metropolis 
on the eastern boundary of that grand old state 
was born a boy, destined to stand before his 
fellowmen and proclaim the “unsearchable 
riches.” Early in his life he knew his mission. In 
his youthful years he felt the spirit of his life- 
work impelling him to preparation. He might 
have been seen many times standing'upon a 


THE GAME 


11 


tree-stump in the clearing, preaching to the 
other stumps, the rows of cabbage-heads, and 
to the tasseling corn. Upon one occasion, being 
thus surprised, the intruder remarked: “My 
son, let not your ardor abate in the intervening 
years, until you shall stand before human cab¬ 
bage-heads and human stumps.” 

At the early age of eighteen, this young man 
received his license to preach, and was there¬ 
after called the Reverend John Baker. 

This reverend gentleman was far from hand¬ 
some. In truth his clerical brethren said he 
was the ugliest man in the conference, but his 
heart was beautiful, and love fears not to tread 
where beauty reigns. Cupid gazed not upon 
physical defects, but saw the innermost glory, 
called it worthy, and shot an arrow. The 
young man saw the direction of the missile and 
followed. It entered the doorway of one who 
had been a chaplain in the confederate army. 
The young man entered too, and found himself 
in the presence of her who appeared to him a 
goddess. In due course of time the wedding 
bells chimed. Miss Emaline Harriet Moorman 
had become the wife of the Reverend John 
Baker. You will recognize that I have intro¬ 
duced you to my father and my mother. 


12 


PLAYING 


My father was a circuit-rider. His circuit 
was not as large as they were when the term 
originated, but at the time of this story, any 
preacher, who had at least one country flock to 
which he must dispense spiritual, moral, and 
religious advice, was, to all intents and purposes, 
a circuit-rider. In this way he was distin¬ 
guished from his brethren, more illustrious, or 
more popular, or more adept at political ma¬ 
neuvering and wire-pulling, but not necessarily 
any wiser, or any better preachers, who were 
assigned to stations, the same being an appoint¬ 
ment to administer to the welfare and uplift of 
only one flock, and that an urban one. 

Father was not a college-bred man. He had 
no degree, although he always signed his name 
with the “P. C.” after it. The meaning of this 
“P. CP was “Preacher-in-Charge,” which of 
course carried with it some measure of impor¬ 
tance. 

There were four children in our family, my 
sister, twin boys, and myself. Sister and I 
were several years older than the twins. Mother 
had never comprehended the fact that one, 
when preparing an essay or a sermon, can do 
so much more thoughtfully and carefully if 
there is no interruption—if nothing is allowed 


THE GAME 


13 


to break in upon the continuity of thought and 
the process of concentration. The twins were 
unheeding of this fact also, but they cannot be 
censured as, at the time of this incident, they 
were only a year old. 

Father, having by nature an ambitious and 
conscientious disposition, always prepared two 
new sermons each week. 

On the particular Monday morning in case, 
father proceeded to his “library/’ which was 
the north-west corner of the family bed-room, 
for the purpose of making a start on one of the 
two sermons he must prepare during the week. 

The first thing to do, of course, was to choose 
a text. He began turning the pages of his 
Bible, reading various passages. He came to 
a verse which seemed to him an appropriate 
setting for some very helpful thoughts. To be 
sure that he understood the thought it con¬ 
tained, he re-read it a number of times. He 
was sure he comprehended it, but for good 
measure he read yet another time: “And when 
the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and 
waxed louder and louder- 

A shriek! a shriek! a shriek! ! It came from 
the kitchen. Father rushed out to see what 
was happening. He found mother wringing 



14 


PLAYING 


her hands, sobbing and crying. When she 
caught sight of him she cried out: 

“My pudding, oh, my pudding!” 

“What in the world is the matter?” asked 
father. 

“My pudding—the cat-O-O-O-O-O-O!” 

When he found that it was nothing more 
serious than the fact that the cat had upset a 
lemon pudding which mother had placed on 
the back-step to cool, he comforted her as best 
he could, and returned to his text-hunting, but 
the inspiration of the verse he was about to 
choose had vanished along with the cat and 
the pudding. 

This is no reflection upon my wonderful 
mother, but an incident similar to many which 
happen in the natural course of events in all 
families. 

Father had to start all over. He turned to 
the New Testament, and came to the passage 
depicting the scene of the woman of Samaria 
at Jacob’s well. This appealed to him as full 
of opportunity for a sermon. 

“John, oh, John, will you please come and 
bring a bucket of water for me?” 

He complied with the request, and then sat 
down to the noon-day meal with a feeling that 



THE GAME 


15 


the morning efforts had been a failure. Inspir¬ 
ation had again taken flight. 

In the afternoon, he had just seated himself 
in his “library,” to again concentrate on a topic 
suitable for a spiritual theme, when Sister 
Cameron came in to interview her pastor, and 
to express it as her candid opinion that Rufus 
Weeks should be expelled from the church, be¬ 
cause he had rented his store-building to a man, 
who had just moved to town from another 
village, in which he had conducted a pool-hall. 
She informed father that: “They do say he is 
going to start one of them hell-holes right here 
in our town, and if Rufus Weeks lets his building 
be used for such a business, he ain’t decent 
enough to sing psalms in our meetin’-house.” 
It had taken her just two and one-half hours 
to deliver her ultimatum. 

Once more he made a start on what to him 
was the main business of the day. A start was 
all he made, however, because a messenger came 
for him to come down to the city hall and marry 
a couple. He could not refuse, because it would 
disappoint the bride and groom, and then there 
might be a fee of two dollars in it for him, and 
these occasional small fees were not to be 
laughed at nor scorned when his salary for 


16 


PLAYING THE GAME 


being a “P. C.” was only four hundred dollars 
a year, paid largely in apples, potatoes, butter 
and eggs. 

By the time he had performed the ceremony, 
starting the two young people on the highway 
of wedded happiness, and had done a few er¬ 
rands, he reached home just in time for supper. 

In the quiet of the evening, he was again 
turning the pages of his Bible, and his eyes 
rested on a passage beginning: “Cry aloud, 
spare not;-.” 

They did. Those twins set up such a crying 
and wailing, and spared not any effort to make 
themselves heard, that it was impossible to 
think. Father went to them, and with a twin 
on each arm, he rocked and sang, sang and 
rocked, until they went to sleep. Wearily, he 
laid them down, mentally observing that he 
was too tired to hunt for a text any more that 
night. 

Sorrowfully, he walked over to his table, and 
as he stood looking down at the pages of his 
book, rather absent-mindedly he opened it at 
another place, and his eyes caught the words, 
“patient in tribulation.” 

“My text, at last,” he said. “I think I can 
preach a strong sermon on that.” 



TWO 


A CERTAIN tenth day of June was a re¬ 
markable one, to some people at least; to a 
young father—to a young mother—but more 
important to a youngster—an infant son, for on 
that day he first made the walls of the upstairs, 
northeast corner room echo with the belligerent 
wails of his vocal organs, of which he had only 
one set, all circumstantial evidence to the 
contrary however. Those were not his last 
wails either. If the four sides of certain bed¬ 
rooms, closets, woodsheds and barns could be 
called to the witness stand, what a din their 
stories would set up. In common parlance 
‘‘that was me.” 

Of course the news spread and the village 
had a brand new piece of information to impart. 
The brethren offered my father congratulations 
and the sisters came flocking in to see me and 
to offer all kinds, manner and description of 
advice. If I remember any of this, it is a very 
faint recollection, but my mother has told me 
all about it so I feel pretty secure in stating it 
as a fact. Some said: “Now isn’t he pretty;” 
another, “He is the image of his father;” another 
yet, “How like his mother.” 


18 


PLAYING 


Miss Julia Brown, a spinster of unknown age, 
felt it her duty to call, not because she liked to 
look at babies, but because she was a member 
of my father’s church, secretary of the mission¬ 
ary society, president of the Ladies’ Aid Society, 
and so forth. When I was presented for her 
inspection, she cried: “Take it away, it looks 
like a snake.” In the light of such conflicting 
testimonies, I have often wondered just what 
sort of a looking bit of humanity I was. If 
the spinster was right, then the others certainly 
had rather peculiar ideas of beauty. If the 
others were right, then the spinster was simply 
ignorant of the essence of beauty. As a matter 
of self pride I have always held to the latter 
contention, but maybe I did look like a freak. 
In fact you hinted at such a while ago, but be 
that what it may, I am sure of one thing: I am 
myself. 

When I had arrived at about the age of nine, 
and during the next few years, I often wondered 
why any boy had to be a preacher’s son. In 
many ways it truly was a discouraging situation. 
I heard on every hand, “Preacher’s sons are the 
very worst boys.” 

A banker’s son could pull the tail of the 
neighbor’s pet angora and no one gave it a 


THE GAME 


19 


thought; not so the preacher’s son. The miller’s 
boy might throw a rock through a window pane; 
it was not sufficient cause for punishment. For 
the same offense the parson’s boy deserved a 
flogging. Laymen’s sons might misbehave in 
religious services, and escape punishment. He 
was excused because “boys will be boys.” For 
the same offense, the clergyman’s son was the 
topic of discussion at a dozen or more Sunday 
dinner tables, and for sake of example, he was 
soundly lectured by his parents, and very fre¬ 
quently he was invited to attend a “social” in 
the woodshed, where refreshments were served 
on a shingle. If mischief was perpetrated in 
the neighborhood, the wise ones always said: 
“I’ll bet that son of a preacher was at the 
bottom of it.” “Oh! he’s a preacher’s son,” 
was the universal combination of excuse and 
accusation. 

One time a lawyer’s son—the teacher’s pet 
because the lawyer was president of the school 
board—and myself had a little difficulty. He 
was permitted to go home at the close of school. 
I was told to remain. After a sound lecture 
on the tenets of good behavior, and being re¬ 
minded that, because I was the son of the spir¬ 
itual adviser of that village I should bear and 


20 


PLAYING 


forbear, I was permitted to go home. On the 
way I met one of my classmates, who taunted 
me thus: “Hello, Preach; the Amen Kid had 
to stay after school, didn’t yer?” This merely 
proves that even the youngsters had it in for 
a parson’s children, doubtless having been en¬ 
couraged in it by hearing certain expressions 
at home. Naturally I felt like giving the 
taunter a thrashing, but I had been admonished 
not to fight—so I passed on and made no reply. 
But I have since had my “revenge,” if I may so 
term it, for that boy has never yet made any 
progress in life. I have gone beyond him. 

When I recall such events in my own life, 
and consider that the same has also happened 
to those of like parentage, I sometimes am 
amazed that more of us are not behind prison 
walls, as a result of such antagonism. 

It seems to me that those old seers got their 
poetry mixed and instead of saying: “To err 
is human,” they said and thought: “To err is 
the province of the preacher’s son.” It is a 
fact at any rate that the world has given a 
distinctive position to the minister’s son. Be 
it just or unjust, the decades of the past have 
always expected more of them than of the off¬ 
spring of those in other professions. It is seem- 


THE GAME 


21 


ingly forgotten that he is but human. His 
good deeds receive no special applause, while 
his errors are weighed down with disapproval— 
a criticism “made to order,” so to speak. But 
now it is a noteworthy fact that men are more 
liberal minded and have awakened a little to 
the realization that sons—whether of mer¬ 
chants, lawyers, bankers or ministers—are all 
born under the same blue skies, nurtured by 
the same laws of nature, surrounded by the 
same vicissitudes, subject to the same passions, 
and endowed with the same sort of possibili¬ 
ties—each with a right to live, a work to do. 
With the advance of thought this middle age 
discrimination has lessened somewhat, though 
it has not wholly disappeared. 

One night when I was about twelve years of 
age, my mother came to my bed to kiss me 
goodnight. This was a custom of hers that 
she kept up as long as I was under the parental 
roof. I remember this particular night, be¬ 
cause she said she felt that I was going to be 
called to preach—that I had been set apart for 
this, and beseeched me that if such a “call” or 
inspiration or whatever you choose to term it, 
should come, I would not refuse it. She kissed 
me, and knelt and prayed. We talk of a 


22 


PLAYING 


mother’s kiss, a mother’s love, watch-care and 
solicitude. We speak of them softly. We 
cherish them as precious stones—the jewels o? 
life with our lives as the settings. We keep them 
deep in our innermost memories, for they are 
too precious to come in contact with anything 
else. Of all such gems, my mother’s prayers 
were the dearest to me. Many, many times 
since have I felt that were my mother near me, 
uttering a prayer, how insignificant would be 
the worries, the cares, the disappointments— 
all the troubles of life. 

It was after I had graduated from the high 
school at the age of fourteen that we spent 
much time in discussing my future education. 
My chief ambition was that I might go to col¬ 
lege. The high schools of our land are excel¬ 
lent and necessary, but we look not very com- 
mendingly upon the parents who think a high 
school graduate fitted for life’s work. So it was 
decided that I should have a college education, 
although it entailed certain sacrifices. Think¬ 
ing me too young to leave the parental roof, 
my parents moved to a college town. Rather 
than separate me from the influences of home, 
and himself from the continued joys of associ¬ 
ation with his family, my father declined a very 


THE GAME 


23 


important “call”—a “loud” one, as some would 
express it—and accepted a less important one 
near the seat of learning. This was indeed a 
sacrifice, as no one ever dared to say that a 
“circuit-rider” was over-paid. Cash came to 
such a one in very limited quantities. Mar¬ 
riage fees were often paid in commodities. My 
father has due him for marrying one couple, a 
load of hay; for another a cord of wood; and 
for others a half dozen chickens, ten bushels of 
corn, a side of bacon; another promised to pay 
him two dollars when he sold his hogs. I’ll 
wager those are the oldest hogs in the world, 
for that was twenty-five years ago, and that 
man has not sold his hogs yet, so far as my father 
knows; at least the two dollars are still due. The 
man who promised the load of hay is long since 
dead. If he tries to deliver it when he meets 
my father in the next world, father will have to 
turn it down, for his old horse is dead, and he 
doesn’t expect to go to a horse-heaven. Young 
people are so prone to forget the sacrifices their 
parents make in their behalf. 





THREE 


gO I entered college. I was not the dullest 
student—nor yet the brightest. I belonged 
to the mass—the average class. I was never suc¬ 
cessful in winning a place on a contest. I never 
won a prize. There was never a suspicion of a 
thought that the scholarship prize was intended 
for me. I was fairly popular with many of the 
other students, but never to the degree that I 
became a fraternity man; nor yet to the extent 
that I was ever asked to take part in any of the 
hazings and hallo we’en pranks and similar epi¬ 
sodes of college life. In fact, I think I would 
never have been president of the literary society 
to which I belonged had it not been that the 
seniors were given, by virtue of a custom of long 
standing, one term in that honored position. 

I was a member of a society known as “The 
Preachers' Sons"—a very excluded set—no 
attention being paid to any successes we achieved, 
but all members sharing in the vituperation 
called forth when any one of us made a false 
step. 

There was one thing, however, in which I 
was the envy of all the other students. In the 
same town was situated a girls' college. Its 


26 


PLAYING 


president had known me from my childhood. 
I enjoyed his confidence. Hence I was often 
seen at his school—more often than any of my 
fellow students. I was invited quite regularly 
to their social functions. This one advantage 
was sweet to me. Perhaps it was good for me, 
perhaps it wasn’t. I came to gloat over the 
jealousy of the other boys, and I fear it was not 
a very good tonic, for I became “girl-struck,” a 
very bad disease for any man—especially a boy 
in his teens. This disease so preyed upon me 
that I failed outright in mathematics in my 
sophomore year. It is a good thing for a boy 
to run his head against a stone wall—sometimes 
—once any how. This was my stone wall in 
that business. I never became so foolish again. 

I arrived at a stage near the close of my 
senior year. I was on none of the contests. 
We could all pick the scholarship man—Jones 
of Illinois. For the seniors only one honor was 
not decided. No one thought of me. Natur¬ 
ally I did not think of it myself. It was at 
last generally conceded that, for many reasons, 
this remaining honor would go to Barber of 
Tennessee, a silvery-tongued young orator and 
a winner of “first” in many contests. It was 
taken for granted and forgotten. 


THE GAME 


27 


The Juniors were giving their annual recep¬ 
tion to the Seniors. I was called to the tele¬ 
phone. This irritated me no little, for I was 
at that very moment seated beside Miss Doro¬ 
thy Mason, the daughter of a well-to-do senator. 
I considered it a beastly interruption, for at 
that minute I was pinning upon her breast my 
class pin, which she had consented to wear in my 
honor until after commencement day. I was 
the twelfth, so she told me, of the members of 
my class to ask from her that honor. The other 
eleven had. of course, been refused. She was 
the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. 
My ecstasy was unbounded. Why, at this 
moment of triumph for a commonplace son of 
a preacher, should some fool person be calling 
for me? For a moment I was tempted to send 
back word that I was busy and for the intruder 
to call later, the next day, any other time, but 
not to bother me now. But I thought better 
of it and answered. I am sure my “Hello” was 
rather discourteous—I dwelt more on the first 
syllable than on the second. I was sorry for 
this immediately, however, when the person at 
the other end said to me: “This is Mr. Carson.” 

I was surprised, almost shocked, that a mem¬ 
ber of the faculty should call me at this time 


28 


PLAYING 


of night and under such circumstances. To 
tell the truth, I was scared. 

“We have just adjourned a faculty meeting,” 
continued Mr. Carson. 

If I was scared before, I was doubly so now. 
I could actually feel myself turning pale. I 
had evidently been under discussion at the 
meeting of the faculty. What did it mean? 
Had this august body decided that a preacher’s 
son should not be permitted to graduate? You 
see this discrimination had worked on my too 
sensitive nature, and wrongly, perhaps, for it 
was constantly before me, stimulating my im¬ 
agination to even unreasonable conclusions. 

Mr. Carson proceeded: “We have come to 
a decision of importance to you. I am in¬ 
structed, as secretary of the faculty, to commu¬ 
nicate the same to you, and personally, at once. 
Meet me at the front gate of the residence 
where you now are, in ten minutes.” He was 
gone before I could ask even one question. I 
could not understand it. 

Dazed, almost stupefied, I returned to Miss 
Mason and told her what had been said, and 
then went out to await the coming of the pro¬ 
fessor. I tried to think. Only one solution 
seemed possible. It had been rumored that 


THE GAME 


29 


one member of the class had not made a very 
satisfactory showing in one of his subjects, and 
that likely he would be cut off from graduation. 
I easily persuaded myself that I was the unlucky 
one, and that my most difficult study—mathe¬ 
matics—was at the bottom of this. But why 
tell me tonight, when I had just scored a victory? 
Tomorrow would have been soon enough to 
communicate to me the disgrace into which 
I had fallen. It must be something unpleasant, 
because Mr. Carson was the messenger. He 
and my father had long been friends, and of 
all the members of the faculty he had been the 
one to whom I had felt the closest. We had 
taken long walks together. It would be very 
natural, then, for him to be asked to approach 
me upon any matter of common interest to the 
faculty and myself. Just here my reverie was 
interrupted by his arrival. I tried to nerve 
myself for the worst. 

“Chester,” he said, “the faculty has canvassed 
carefully your entire record since you entered 
this institution. You have been in attendance 
longer than any of your classmates. While 
your record as a student has not been brilliant, 
it has been good. You have been a steady, 
exemplary young man. You have always stood 


30 


PLAYING 


on the side of right on all moral questions. In 
all the years you have been with us, you have 
not been absent a day nor from a single recita¬ 
tion. The faculty recognizes these things, and 
feels that before you leave us to enter larger 
fields of labor, and, as we believe, of usefulness, 
you are deserving of some honor that we can 
bestow. When you delivered your oration at 
‘assembly’ the other morning, the faculty was 
impressed very favorably—so decidedly so that 
you have been chosen to represent your class 
commencement day in the capacity of class 
orator. We feel sure that you will do this with 
honor to yourself, your class and your Alma 
Mater.” 

Surprised? That is a very ordinary word to 
use in portrayal of the emotions and feelings 
that possessed me. I am not ashamed of the 
lump that was in my throat, nor of the tears 
that bedimmed my eyes. I was speechless. I 
clasped his hand in both of mine. He passed 
on, well knowing how highly I appreciated the 
honor conferred upon me. 

As soon as I had composed myself, I returned 
to the scene of pleasure. Miss Mason was 
talking to Barber of Tennessee. Excusing her¬ 
self, she came to me at once. I could see a 


THE GAME 


31 


question in her eyes, but I determined that 
she should ask in words. After a few mean¬ 
ingless remarks, she said: “I do not wish to 
be inquisitive, but—will you tell me the cause 
of the interview?” 

“I would rather tell you than any one I 
know,” I replied, and told her. 

“Oh, how perfectly grand!” she cried. “Come 
here, Mr. Barber. Professor Carson has just 
been here and informed Mr. Baker that he has 
been chosen to represent your class commence¬ 
ment day. Is not that fine?” 

For just a moment a cloud passed over 
Barber’s face. He had been so sure of being 
chosen that he had really been preparing for it. 

“Accept my congratulations, Baker,” he said 
very stiffly. 

Soon it was noised through the crowd. My 
classmates gathered around me,—all but James 
of Kentucky, and he held aloof for no other 
reason, so far as I ever knew, than that he was 
jealous of Miss Mason’s attentions to me, be¬ 
cause he had been NUMBER ONE in asking 
her to wear the class pin. She noticed his 
attitude, and said: 

“Come, Mr. James, congratulate Mr. Baker.” 
He hesitated, and she said: 


32 


PLAYING 


“I’m sure Miss Dyson will excuse you that 
long.” 

He extended his hand in a very disagreeable 
mood and said not a word to me, but as he 
turned away I heard him say to Miss Dyson: 

“The preacher’s goody-goody.” 

I paid no attention to it. What did I care 
if James did snub me? Was not Miss Mason 
my champion? 

Miss Mason was one of the young ladies from 
the girls’ college, a number of whom were pres¬ 
ent, accompanied by one of the teachers as 
chaperon. Knowing the esteem in which the 
president held me, the chaperon did not hesi¬ 
tate to grant me permission to walk to the 
college with Miss Mason. For months I had 
admired her, at a distance, but up to this night 
I had not ventured to let her know it by so 
much as a single word or look. To be alone 
with her now nearly caused me to let loose my 
tongue and tell her all that I felt in my heart— 
a feeling that so often takes hold of a youth 
just passing out of his young years into those 
of manhood. 

When we arrived at the entrance to the 
college Miss Mason said: “Mr. Baker, do your 


THE GAME 


33 


very best commencement day for the sake of 
yourself, your class, and—” 

“You,” I said, completing the sentence for 
her. 

She caught her breath as if surprised, and 
entered the building without another word. 

Commencement day arrived. It was typical. 
The sun was shining, flowers blooming, birds 
singing. It was a rare day in June that the 
poet writes about. The board of curators, the 
faculty, and the senior class were ready for the 
march to the auditorium, where a large con¬ 
course of people filled every available space. 
The college girls were seated in their accustomed 
section. 

I had not talked with Miss Mason since the’ 
night of the Junior reception. She had bowed 
to me a number of times from her window in 
the dormitory. I had spoken to her several 
afternoons as she passed by in the walking line. 
True, I could have called for her at the college 
and would have been permitted to see her, but 
I refrained. Something I cannot explain held 
me back. 

All young men when in love have some silly 
ideas, but they are natural, just the same. One 
of these “silly” things happened to me on my 


34 


PLAYING 


graduation day. As we marched up the 
steps to the auditorium, on one of the steps I 
noticed a card. I do not know why I looked 
at it a second time, but I did, and read very 
distinctly the words “Miss Dorothy Mason.” I 
picked it up, and turning it over I read, written 
across the top, “For the sake of yourself, your 

class, and-,” and down in one corner, “you.” 

It was evident that she had written on the 
reverse side, for those were the words we had 
spoken when we parted the night of the recep¬ 
tion. At first I was overjoyed with the thought, 
absurd though it may have been, that she had 
dropped that card purposely, hoping that I 
would find it—but immediately I decided other¬ 
wise, for the chance that I would find it after 
so many had passed along, was too small for 
the consideration of a child, much less of a 
sensible young woman like its owner. 

When I took my seat in the auditorium I 
became conscious that the card was still in my 
hand, and in attempting to unconcernedly put 
it in my pocket, I raised my eyes to the audience 
and looked squarely into those of Miss Mason, 
not ten feet away. She saw the card, and im¬ 
mediately examined the contents of her hand¬ 
bag. When she looked at me again the red 



THE GAME 


35 


flushed her cheeks. She wore a puzzled look. 
A moment thus, then she smiled. Such a smile! 
It was as rare and bright as the June day. I 
knew she was not angry, and hence my chill 
anxiety warmed to a complacent feeling of joy. 

As the time approached for me to deliver 
my oration, I felt something of timidity. It 
was my first appearance before so many digni¬ 
taries and such a large assemblage. That did 
not mean so much to me, however, as the fact 
that I wanted to acquit myself creditably, be¬ 
cause I knew that down deep in their hearts 
both Barber and James were more than willing 
that I should fail. Then there was a greater 
reason—I was anxious to please two persons 
especially—my mother and Miss Mason. I 
cared very little what anyone else might think, 
if only these two might be gratified. What 
they said to me at the close of the exercises 
made me feel that I had succeeded. 

That afternoon I went over to the girls’ 
college and called for Miss Mason. She came 
down, wearing a rose. I had ordered some 
roses for her early that morning, but so greatly 
had I been engrossed with the affairs of the day 
that I had not noticed it at the time nor recalled 
until now, that she had not worn any of them 


36 


PLAYING 


at the exercises. This vexed me, and I spoke 
to her rather stiffly. My thought controlled 
my eyes, for she caught me gazing at the rose. 

“Is it not a beauty?” she asked. 

“Quite,” I responded. 

“Perhaps you do not like flowers in general 
and roses in particular.” 

“On the contrary, I love flowers in general, 
and roses in particular?” 

There was some surprise in her expression at 
my curtness. 

I continued: “When you detected me gazing 
at that rose I was wondering why you wear it 
NOW.” 

“Because I could not wear it sooner,” with 
such an air of indifference as to say that two 
oould play that game. 

“Why not?” 

“One cannot wear that which is not in his 
or her possession.” 

That set me to thinking. I had ordered mine 
sufficiently early. Perhaps this was not one of 
my roses. I so decided, and said: 

“You love particular roses.” 

“Yes, this one and those that came with it I 
was particularly glad to receive.” 


THE GAME 


37 


“They must have been sent by a very dear 
friend.” 

“I cannot say,” she replied, “as they arrived 
only a few minutes ago. There was no card.” 

That explained it all. I was humiliated be¬ 
cause I had failed to leave a card with the florist, 
and more because I had acted so disagreeably 
in her presence. I offered an explanation, which 
she accepted by saying: “That is all right. I 
thank you for them, Mr. Baker. Please be 
seated.” 

I told her about finding the card that morning 
and asked: “Did I do honor to myself this 
morning?” 

“Yes.” 

“To my class?” 

“Yes.” 

“To-” 

“We were all proud of you,” she interrupted. 

“Miss Mason, may I keep this card?” 

“Why not? No one seems to claim it. If 
I were you, I would keep it until the owner 
claims it. That is the usual way with things 
that are found, isn’t it?” 

As she bade me good-bye at the train that 
evening, she said, just as I was for the one- 
hundredth time going to ask her to allow me 



38 


PLAYING 


to correspond with her, “I wish to finish for 
myself the sentence you finished for me the 
night of the Junior reception,” and then she 
merely said, “and to your country.” 

The train “pulled out.” 

I cannot describe my feelings. I was obliv¬ 
ious to everything except that I was watching 
the rear lights of the passenger growing dimmer 
and dimmer as the distance between them and 
myself increased moment by moment. I do 
not know how long I might have stood there 
had not some one slapped me on the back. I 
turned and saw one of my schoolmates. 

“She doesn’t live in China,” he said. 

I made him no reply. We walked up town 
together—but he did most of the talking. At 
the foot of the stairs leading up to his frater¬ 
nity house, he said: “Forget it, old man. Come 
up a while. You have always been so selfish. 
There is left only a few of us tonight, but we 
shall feel honored to have you up. Perhaps 
we can cheer you. You act as though this were 
your first love affair, and this the last day of 
existence. You will pull through. I’ve been all 
along the line. I know. The first is always 
the most severe. Come on up.” He grasped 
my arm and in a moment I was for the first 


THE GAME 


39 


time inside the club-room of a Greek-letter 
fraternity. As we entered he called out: 

“Fellows, I’ve captured the ‘lion of the hour.’ 
I came upon him stealthily and unawares. I 
found him conducting himself worse than if he 
had been at a funeral. What do you think of 
such negative hilarity on the part of one who 
has triumphed over us twice?” 

To myself I said: “Once, yes—twice, NO.” 

“Shameful,” “Horrid,” “Congratulations,” 
“Glad to have you up,” in unison from several. 

I spent a couple of hours very pleasantly, and 
when I went to my home was very much 
cheered, as my friend had said I would be, but 
I had not forgotten the feelings of the earlier 
part of the evening. 

Sleep has always been a very natural thing 
with me. Almost like Silas Strong, at any time 
of day or night I have only to lie down and 
“let go.” I was really surprised how easily I 
did so on that night. I slept well, and rose 
the next morning with a clear brain, prepared 
to do some thinking. 

My father’s house was on the outskirts of 
the town near a wooded pasture. A brook ran 
nearby. The time-honored grapevine grew 
there. A decidedly delightful one of nature’s 


40 


PLAYING 


cozy-comers was there. Many times had I 
read in it; there the problems of geometry and 
calculus had unfolded to me their mysteries 
when occasionally they did unfold—which was 
seldom. There the intricate Latin and Greek 
sentences had become clear; there many times 
lately I had rehearsed my oration. Naturally 
I betook myself to this secluded nook to think 
out the problem of Dorothy Mason. 

Mine was not a mathematical mind, so it was 
rather strange that I sought the solution thus: 
Hypothesis: A beautiful young lady—Dorothy 
Mason. 

Myself—undoubtedly in love with afore¬ 
said young lady. 

Required: (a) My present position in her 
regard. 

(b) My future conduct toward her. 
Argument: Miss Mason just eighteen. 

My age, twenty. 

I have been in her company only three 
times, though I have silently admired 
her for months. 

Her father is rich and prominent in 
political circles. 

My father is poor, but prominent in 
church affairs. 


THE GAME 


41 


She wore my pin, having declined eleven 
others. 

Why? 

No answer. 

Why that card? 

No answer at hand. 

Has she a sweetheart at home? 

I have no way of knowing. Most likely. 
Why did she part with me so abruptly? 
No answer. 

Will I see her again? 

Doubtful. 

Is she a flirt? 

Her manner is too sincere for that. 

She seemed willing to be my friend. Per¬ 
haps my ardor betrayed that friendship. 
Most likely it would be best for me never 
to see her again. 

What assurances had I that I would ever 
have enough money to support her in 
the luxury she had been accustomed to? 
None. 

What reason had I to believe that I 
could win her at all? 

None. 

Would she be willing to build up in life 
with me? 


42 


PLAYING THE GAME 


No answer. 

Should I write to her? 

No. 

Conclusion: I would remember her only as a 
college friend—the most beautiful, the 
dearest, but withal just a college friend. 

A few days later I received a letter and a 
package. The letter ran: 

My dear Mr. Baker: 

I am sending your pin by this mail. It was 
very stupid of me to wear it away. I did not 
intend to do so. I confess it was forgetfulness. 

You have my best wishes for a successful 
future. 

Very respectfully yours, 

Dorothy Mason. 

Strange, but true, I had never missed my pin. 
I was confirmed in the correctness of the 
solution of my problem. I set out in the mem¬ 
orandum of my memory: Q. E. D. Finis. 


FOUR 


JT was now imperative that I decide upon a 

profession. My mother thought I should 
enter the ministry. I was not so inclined. I 
decided to teach. 

Too often the college graduate lacks the ex¬ 
perience that should have come to him at his 
age. His mind has been stored with facts, facts, 
facts, while the practical side of life has been 
undeveloped. He has mastered books, theories, 
what-not, but the practical common sense 
things of life are yet to be mastered. This was 
more true in the past than now. More and 
more are the schools of today affording practical 
instruction. 

As the train bore me away to the place where 
I was to actively take up my duties as a teacher, 
I had a certain self-satisfied feeling. The com¬ 
mon term that many would apply to my feelings 
would be “big-head.” This is a very serious 
malady for a young man of twenty years. 
Sooner or later—the sooner the better—this will 
be taken out of him. The eliminating process 
may of necessity be severe, even humiliating, 
but the patient will survive and be the better 
for it. I know because I had the experience. 


44 


PLAYING 


Without meaning to reflect upon them, my 
parents made one mistake, at least, in my bring¬ 
ing up. They did not teach me the proper 
appreciation of money. They were not wholly 
to blame in this, because of circumstances. A 
child should have from time to time a certain 
amount of money intrusted to his care. Then 
advice becomes more wholesome since it is given 
in the matter of practice and not of theory. 
This is the best way to teach the value of a 
dollar and instill the habit of saving. So few 
were the times that money was intrusted to me 
as a talent that I went into the world of my 
work a cripple financially—in fact and in 
judgment. 

But now the fact that I was really earning 
my own money and could spend it as I chose, 
uncovered my weakness. Thirty dollars a 
month seemed to me a fabulous sum. I thought 
that I could buy anything. I ran bills. Why 
not? My parents did. There was a difference, 
however. They had sense enough to keep their 
bills inside their income—I didn’t. They had 
money to pay all accounts when due—I didn’t. 
The first thing I knew, I was heavily in debt. 
At the close of my first year I was in the same 
predicament as the man who wrote, “No money, 


THE GAME 


45 


and the pangs of debt gnawing at my vitals.’’ 

As an instructor, I was pronounced a success. 
In fact, so much so, that I was elected president 
of the academy for the coming year. I thought 
that I had learned my lesson—financially—so 
did the board, and to such an extent that they 
assisted me to borrow sufficient money to pay 
my accounts. It was, to be sure, a small amount 
in a way, but it seemed to me a veritable 
mountain. 

“Luck” seemed to be smiling on me. Fall 
came and with it the results of my summer’s 
work, for the academy opened under the most 
flourishing circumstances of years. I was mak¬ 
ing some money out of it. I paid my note and 
began to lay by some “shekels.” I was almost 
self-confident. I was soon to be put to the test. 

There was a bachelor with whom I was on 
confidential terms. He owned a store. He 
impressed me with his tales of how much money 
he was making. But his health was bad. He 
was sure he would have to change his location 
for a climate more suited to his state of health. 
He would have to do this at a great sacrifice, 
but he was willing to do it in order to prolong 
his life. 

My landlady, Mrs. Paxton, was a widow. 


46 


PLAYING 


She had a son a year or two my junior. One 
morning she said to me: 

“I have been thinking of purchasing Mr. 
Upton’s store. My son, George, is elated with 
the idea, and wants you for a partner.” 

I had worked in a number of stores, but I 
had seen only one side of the business—the 
money-coming-in side. The idea fascinated me 
at once. I pictured independent circumstances 
as immediately at my command. But there 
was the school. To this objection, both Mr. 
Upton and Mrs. Paxton answered that it would 
be all right for me to continue the school and 
let George run the store. I objected, because 
I did not have sufficient funds for my half 
interest. Mr. Upton would not let that stand 
in the way, however, and offered to take a note 
and mortgage. He assured me that in six 
months I would have it lifted. I felt very 
important, for now I would have two avenues 
of income, a school and a store. I certainly 
felt like a business man a few days later when 
I rode along the road and noticed numerous 
signs like this: 

BAKER AND PAXTON 
GENERAL MERCHANDISE 

We did well at first, for we had bought in 


THE GAME 


47 


time to get the Christmas trade. But the lull 
that came after that was stunning. I was a 
poor buyer; so was my partner. A few weeks 
longer and we were decidedly over-stocked. 
My school earnings had to go into the business 
to help meet expenses. I began to scent failure 
ahead, but I did not know what to do to avert it. 

Mr. Upton had gone away, but had returned 
in an incredibly short time, thoroughly restored 
in health. His ever-inquisitive presence in and 
about the store haunted me. Finally the six 
months were up. The mortgage was foreclosed. 
My school earnings were gone, my business was 
gone—I was in debt to an amount that even 
today would turn me pale and sick. The one 
fact remains: I came out of the “little end of 
the horn,” and Mr. Upton came out with a wife 
and Mrs. Paxton with a husband, for in less 
than thirty days after the foreclosure they were 
married, and George was retained as partner. 
Then—but too late for my good—everybody 
suddenly remembered that Mr. Upton and Mrs. 
Paxton had been sweethearts before she mar¬ 
ried Mr. Paxton. Mr. Upton had always loved 
her, and somehow it seemed that he had used 
me in a mysterious way his love wonders to 
perform. I hope she fully compensated him 


48 


PLAYING 


for any financial loss the deal brought him. I 
believe she did, for I had always looked upon 
her as a good woman. At any rate he is not the 
only old bachelor who has been willing to pay 
a handsome price for a widow—charming or 
otherwise. 

Those signs haunt me yet. My name was 
covered with black paint and that of “Upton” 
was placed in its stead. Every time I read 

UPTON AND PAXTON 
GENERAL MERCHANDISE 

I could see underneath my name, in an imag¬ 
inary circle, around the circumference of which, 
in bold letters, stood out FAILURE. 

School closed. I declined reelection, and in 
my room the last night of my sojourn in that 
village, I wrote in my diary to myself: 

You have learned your lesson sure this 
time, but the tuition is yet to be paid. 
You’ve been a President once too often, 
a year too long, and a Store-keeper six 
months more than enough. 

Beware of bachelors with ill health, and 
a lucrative business to dispose of. 

Shun the love-sick-bachelor-widow com¬ 
bine. 

A poor man is a fool to try to break into 


TEE GAME 


49 


Wall Street, be it in New York or 
Coffeyburg. 

If you have no business sense, you can¬ 
not be a business man. 

The next day I started home. For some 
strange reason I felt more a man than ever 
before. I had been sobered. I resolved that 
I would be a success from that day on. I felt 
that I would be. 

I had not been home these two years. As I 
drew nearer home, I began to think of the time 
when I had left it. Suddenly a memory, long 
dormant, rushed in, awoke as it were, and I 
was asking myself if I had done “honor to 

myself, my class and my-,” but instead of 

finishing that question, I was face to face with 
with another: “What had become of Dorothy 
Mason ?” 

Restlessness and indecision are indicative that 
the right profession has not been chosen. I 
concluded that teaching was not the right sphere 
for me, for I had become restless in the pursuit 
of it. I decided that I would do something else. 

The day following my arrival home, I donned 
overalls and went to work painting the house 
of a neighbor. When this was completed, I 
found other odd jobs. Of course, I did not 


50 


PLAYING 


intend to thus spend the rest of my days, but 
it was something to do. One can think better 
when employed than when idle. I was bridg¬ 
ing and thinking at the same time. One after¬ 
noon I was at the top of a ladder painting the 
gable of a house, when below me I heard: 

“Young man, you are higher up in the world 
than when I last saw you.” 

Looking down I beheld Bertram Lawrence, 
representative of a large publishing house. 
This same gentleman had called on me just two 
days after Mr. Upton had foreclosed the mort¬ 
gage. Stranger though he was, I had told him 
of my reverses. These bookmen are generally 
fine fellows with big hearts and a willingness to 
share your troubles, to the extent of sympathy 
and encouragement, at least. I quickly de¬ 
scended and greeted him warmly. 

“I do not want to take your time now,” he 
said, “and I have others to see here. I want 
you to take dinner with me at the hotel this 
evening. I want to have a talk with you.” 

“Not much,” I said. “You will come right 
down to our house for dinner.” 

“But I want to talk privately with you.” 

“We can arrange that, too.” 


THE GAME 


51 


“All right. I’ll dine with you and then we 
will go to my room.” 

Nine o’clock found us in his room at the 
hotel. 

“Well, Baker, what are you going to do now?” 

“Mr. Lawrence, I confess I have not decided 
yet.” 

“I have just come from where you taught 
last year. I made inquiry about you and found 
that you left a good impression behind you. 
Most of those people feel that you were the 
victim of circumstances. I believe you to be 
honest and reliable—two things that go far in 
making a man. My house has intrusted to 
me the finding of a man to take half my terri¬ 
tory, which has been entirely too large. You 
are the man I want. We will start you at one 
hundred dollars per month and expenses. If 
you will accept I will remain over tomorrow, 
instruct you all I can, and will expect you to 
be in the field two weeks from today. What 
do you say?” 

I was surprised, but my impulsive nature 
arose as usual, and I accepted; this time my 
impulse was a wise one. 

I had been thus employed for about four 
months, and with some success too, according 
to the way the house wrote about the business 


52 


PLAYING 


I was securing, when one day I received this 
telegram: 

“Meet Lawrence at Metropole Hotel, 

Jonesville, tomorrow. Important deal.” 

The trip to Jonesville gave me opportunity 
for reflection and speculation. Why was I 
chosen for this important mission over older 
men and those longer in the service? I decided 
that it must be at the request of Mr. Lawrence, 
but why? 

The trip was becoming tiresome. It lacked 
two hours yet of time for me to arrive. I 
heard a commotion in the rear of the car, and 
looking back saw a number of people coming 
in. I learned that the car behind us was to be 
cut out at the next station—a junction point— 
and that the passengers going to Jonesville had 
been moved ahead. A young lady of about 
seventeen accommodated herself behind me. 
When we reached the junction the first person 
to enter was a woman. She was what some 
call pretty; as much so as blondined hair, perfectly 
arranged paint, handsome wearing apparel and 
a profusion of jewels could make one. Her 
carriage was flawless. Her eyes were marvel¬ 
ously expressive. She was just the sort to 
attract any innocent person. She asked the 


THE GAME 


53 


young lady if she might share her seat. Such 
a soft, pleasing voice!!! I glanced over my 
shoulder and saw a face all wreathed in budding 
smiles. Instinctively I mistrusted her. I felt 
that underneath this gorgeous exterior was 
concealed the nature of a demon. This im¬ 
pression intensified as I caught bits of their 
conversation from time to time. 

“Have you come some distance?” the wo¬ 
man asked. 

“From California,” the girl replied. 

“Are you traveling alone such a long way?” 

“I had a friend with me until this morning.” 

“What is your destination?” 

“Jonesville. I am going to visit my uncle.” 

“That is my destination too,” said the 
woman. “I live there. Who is your uncle?” 

“Senator Thomas -;” I did not hear 

the rest of the name, but caught “1347 Wash¬ 
ington Boulevard.” 

“Indeed? They are friends of mine. My 
name is Krafton. Your aunt and I belong to 
the same clubs. We were at a reception to¬ 
gether yesterday. I recall that she told me 
she was expecting her niece, but she said Thurs¬ 
day, and this is Wednesday. I fear there is 




54 


PLAYING 


some misunderstanding and that likely they 
will not meet you.” 

Evidently this frightened the girl, for the 
woman hastily added: “But don’t let that 
bother you. I’ll take you to them. My auto 
will be waiting. It is only a little out of my 
way to go by their home. It will be a pleasure 
to me to serve them and you in such a manner.” 

This had the desired effect of disarming and 
calming the girl, but it increased my apprehen¬ 
sions. But what business was it of mine? 
What reason had I to suspect this woman? 
How could I know whether she were telling the 
truth or not? I dismissed it from my mind in 
a measure, and thought of the business ahead 
of me. 

When we arrived at Jonesville, and they had 
passed out, I was still impressed that there was 
something wrong. Without being resolved 
upon anything in particular, I watched them, 
following closely. Outside, where the cabs 
await, I heard the woman say: “Well, my 
dear, they are not here, but I’ll see you safely 
there. I wonder where my auto is?” 

Just then her chauffeur approached. 

“Just get right in, my dear,” said the woman 
to the girl. Aside to her chauffeur she said: 


THE GAME 


55 


“Drive fast, he's ■watching,” at which I glanced 
toward her and found her gaze fast upon me 
with the glare of a lioness. As they drove off, 
I jumped into another car, telling the driver to 
trail, and not to stop until I signaled. We 
drove what seemed to me many miles. Sudden¬ 
ly we made a turn, and I saw the other car just 
halting a short distance ahead. My driver 
stopped. I jumped out, somewhat angry be¬ 
cause he had stopped without a signal from me, 
but he spoke first: 

“I'm wise. Tell that officer over there.” 

On the opposite corner I saw a policeman. 
I ran across to him, and as I did so I looked 
to where the other car was standing, and had 
done so just in time to see the woman and the 
girl entering the house. The officer saw it too, 
and was the first to speak. 

“What’s up?” he asked. 

“A girl has been kidnaped,” I cried. “She 
has just been taken into that house.” 

“We have suspected that place several days,” 
he said. 

In response to his signal two other officers 
arrived. He instructed them to guard the 
house in question. He bade me tell my story. 
It was decided that I should call up 1347 


56 


PLAYING 


Washington Boulevard; the directory said 
Thomas Mason lived there. 

“Hello,” I said. “Is that the residence of 
Thomas Mason?” 

“Yes,” a feminine voice responded. I im¬ 
agined I had heard it before. 

“Were you expecting a young lady from 
California tonight?” 

“Yes. Father has just returned from the 
station. She did not come. Why do you ask? 
Who are you?” 

“My name is Baker. To whom am I talking?” 

“Dorothy Mason. Are you-?” 

“Dorothy Mason!!! Did you-?” 

The officer impatiently snatched the receiver 
from me. I stood there as one dazed and heard 
the officer saying: 

“Yes, a young man who says his name is 
Baker states that he was on the train with a 
young girl seventeen or eighteen. He heard 
her tell a woman she was from California, and 
was on her way to visit her uncle, and gave 
your street address. The woman told the girl 
that she was a friend of yours and would take 
her to you. Instead she took her to a house 
concerning which we have had suspicions for 
several days. This young man suspected foul 




THE GAME 


57 


play, and followed. You’ll come at once?” He 
gave directions and hung up the receiver. 

“Mason is coming down,” said the officer. 

Upon his arrival, he addressed me: “Are 
you Chester Baker?” 

“I am.” 

“When in college did you meet a young 
lady—Miss Dorothy Mason?” 

“I had that honor.” 

“Then, sir, I have heard of you.” To the 
officer he said: “I am sure he is telling the 
truth. We must rescue my niece at once.” 

We found her in a room, almost wild with 
fear. When the door was broken down and 
her uncle entered she fainted and fell into his 
arms. Soon she was revived, and seeing me, 
the truth seemed to flash upon her. 

“I saw you on the train. Did you save 
me?” she asked. 

“I helped.” 

Her uncle turned to me and said: “Mr. 
Baker, I am Dorothy Mason’s father, as you 
know by this time. This is my sister’s only 
child—Mercy Rush. We three will now go 
to my house for the night.” 

“Thank you, Senator, but I am long overdue 
at the Metropole Hotel. I told the driver to 


58 


PLAYING THE GAME 


wait for me. I’ll call you at ten in the 
morning.” 

“As you like, sir. You are welcome at my 
home. You have performed a service for me 
and mine that can never be repaid. I shall 
see you at any time tomorrow that you may 
find convenient.” 

I went to bed, but not to sleep, for a long 
while. Somehow, for once in my life, I could 
not “let go.” Thoughts!!! Truly there was a 
multitude. I was thankful that I was “my 
brother’s keeper.” This time my impulse had 
been a righteous one. I was thankful. Why 
not? Had I not done a righteous deed? Had 
I not helped to entrap one of the dragon’s 
agents? 


FIVE 


'IXZHEN I awoke the next morning the first 
^ * thought that came to me was that Mr. Law¬ 
rence would expect an explanation of my de¬ 
lay. I did not want to tell him. While debat¬ 
ing what I should do, there came a knock on 
my door, and Mr. Lawrence entered. 

“Good morning, Mr. Hero! You’ve quit the 
book business and gone in for detective work, 
so the papers say.” In bold headlines was 
heralded the affair of the night before: 

“An Agent of the White Slave Traffic 
Caught. Chester Baker, Representative 
of a well-known Publishing House, to the 
Rescue. Senator Mason’s Niece the 
Victim.” 

I dismissed the subject as soon as possible 
and we went down to breakfast. 

“Why, Mr. Lawrence, did the house send me 
over here?” 

“Because I asked them to. The board here 
will adopt readers, arithmetics and geogra¬ 
phies. I think the readers are safe for us, 
but the other two I am not so sure about. 


60 


PLAYING 


Groton and Barr seem to have the lead on 
arithmetics. We have an even break on geog¬ 
raphies. Now, my boy, we must have all three, 
if fair means will get them. Let me tell you 
what it means. Our firm is going to establish 
a branch office here. If we win in this adop¬ 
tion, I'm to be the manager and I choose you 
as my assistant. I am glad of the occurrence 
of last night because of its moral worth. In¬ 
cidentally, it gives us a little advertising. You 
will be gladly heard today. You are before 
them before they have seen you. If we win 
tomorrow night you will be in a large manner 
responsible. Are you ready for the fight?” 

“ Yes,” but as I said it I felt as though Atlas 
and his universe had landed on me. 

At ten o’clock I called up Senator Mason, 
explained my business in the city, and post¬ 
poned calling until the next day. A thought 
seemed to suddenly come to him. He said: 
“I can help you. Lunch with me at Dono¬ 
van’s ... Yes the ladies are all right.” 

I set out to see the members of the school 
board. I never talked business under such 
trying circumstances. All wanted to hear me 
tell about the occurrence of the night before. 


THE GAME 


61 


Before lunch I had called on Bragg, Jasper, 
and Nolen. The first two gave me some hope, 
but Nolen was lined up with our competitors. 
This Nolen, though some years my senior, had 
been a classmate of mine. We recognized each 
other immediately, and his greeting was this: 
“I see that the preacher’s model boy has fig¬ 
ured in a sensation.” 

At lunch we told the Senator how matters 
stood. 

“So Nolen seems to be against you? Well, 
just put him down as for you, and don’t ask 
me any questions. And there’s Murphy and 
Prather—they will vote for you, and I still re¬ 
fuse to answer questions. Mayor Burgess will 
put Conrad and Judge Simpson in line. As to 
Duncan, no one can ever handle him but his 
wife, and she on rare occasions only There’s 
enough without him. This is your adoption, 
Mr. Baker, as the first partial payment on the 
enormous debt I owe you.” 

The day following the adoption, I called at 
Senator Mason’s home. Dorothy met me at 
the door. Since our last meeting time had 
wrought but little change in her. She had be¬ 
come more of a woman, and, if possible, more 


62 


PLAYING 


beautiful, but I recognized the same Dorothy 
Mason. We spent a pleasant time recounting 
the happenings in each other’s lives since last 
we had been together—a meeting of old friends, 
one-time schoolmates. 

After the branch office was opened, I was a 
regular caller at the Mason residence. I soon 
found that my solution of my problem would 
not do. I knew I was really in love with 
Dorothy, but she would give me no opportunity 
to declare my love. Notwithstanding our al¬ 
most constant companionship of the next few 
months, not one word of love-making passed 
between us. I often dined with them. On one 
of these occasions, the Senator said to me: 
‘ 4 Well, Chester, we are going to leave you for 
a while. We are going to spend the summer 
on my farm. But I demand a favor of you, 
namely, that you visit us there as often as you 
can.’ 9 

You may be sure I found it convenient to ac¬ 
cept the Senator’s invitation for over Sunday 
several times. 

On one of these occasions, Dorothy and I 
were sitting under a large shade tree which 
held many memories for her. In childhood 


THE GAME 


63 


she had played around it many times. We were 
free and happy that day, as if we were children 
again. She brought out a mandolin and taught 
me to play a piece she called “My Old Kansas 
Home.” I climbed the tree, and, like a school¬ 
boy, carved the letters D. M. and C. B. While 
doing this an inspiration took firm hold upon 
me, and when I had descended, I said: 

“ Dorothy, when we were in college, I felt 
that I loved you. I wanted to tell you then 
how for months I had silently worshiped at 
your shrine. But you acted so cold that night 
at the train, I was sure that you cared not at 
all for me. The next day, all alone in the woods, 
I fought my battle and thought I had won. By 
chance, as it were, you have come back into my 
life. All the previous yearnings and longings 
of my heart have returned, but with greater in¬ 
tensity. I can be silent no longer. I must 
speak, I love you. Will you be my wife?” 

For fully a minute she looked me squarely 
in the eye, then turned and walked slowly a few 
steps from me, her face in her hands. She 
was crying. I rushed to her side. I fain would 
have taken her in my arms, but I dared not. I 
started to speak, but she motioned me to silence 


64 


PLAYING 


and said, “'Come with me.” 

On the other side of the yard, she stopped 
and spoke: 

“Chester, do you see that house over there? 
Just beyond it is a family graveyard. In it 
lies one buried, cut off from life in the very 
bloom of youthful manhood. That was before 
I went to college, in the year I met you. True, 
we were young, but love takes deep root some¬ 
times in the very young heart. I loved him— 
he loved me. We were to wed when he became 
of age. I have never seen two people resemble 
so precisely as you and he. Perhaps that is 
why I have been so drawn to you in friendship. 
I was with him to the end, and, foolish though 
some might say it was, I pledged him to be his 
love forever. I cannot marry you, Chester. 
I respect you more than I can tell, but my 
promise has gone out into eternity and I feel 
that I must be true to it. I’ve dreaded this 
hour. Don’t be angry with me for not telling 
you before. Don’t you understand? If I only 
could ...” but her tears prevented further 
speech. 

I was too deeply wounded to attempt to 
answer. In silence we went back to the house. 


THE GAME 


65 


It was nearly train time. Though we said not a 
word, Senator and Mrs. Mason seemed to un¬ 
derstand, and our parting was a gloomy one. 
How different from what I had hoped it would 
be! 

Mr. Lawrence was all consternation a few 
mornings later when I abruptly said: 

“Here is my resignation .’’ 

“Your what?” 

“My resignation.” 

“From what?” 

“The assistant managership of this office.” 

“Man, are you crazy?” 

“Yes and no . 99 Then I told him all. 

He pleaded with me but to no avail. I had 
made up my mind to go west, and did so a fort¬ 
night later. 

I taught school a year, and then became pri¬ 
vate secretary to Mr. Swanson, the president 
of a newly organized mining company. 

In due course of time, Mr. Swanson went to 
New York on a business trip. 

There he learned of certain new develop¬ 
ments and that a Senator Mason, now living in 
Chicago, was interested in them. He wired me 
to meet him there. 


66 


PLAYING 


The first evening Mr. Swanson was in Chi¬ 
cago, he was a dinner guest at Senator Mason’s 
home. 

“Mr. Swanson, just come in here, and while 
we smoke, Dorothy will play for us,” said the 
Senator. 

Dorothy played an old German melody. 

“That is, I suppose, a very fine piece of 
music,” said Mr. Swanson. “I am not versed 
in music, myself—I never had much ear for it. 
I never heard but one piece in my life that I 
enjoyed, and for that reason I asked the name 
of it. The young man who played it on a man¬ 
dolin, said it was called ‘My Old Kansas 
Home.’ Did you ever hear of it?” 

“Yes, Mr. Swanson, I have heard a piece 
with that title,” and so saying she reached for 
her mandolin and played it. 

“By Gad, the very same, only you play it 
much better than Chester.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Swanson; where and when 
did you ever see Chester Baker?” 

“My dear Miss Mason, do you know Chester 
Baker? Where did I see him? In my office. 
When? The last time ten days ago. He is 
my private secretary. I wired him to meet me 


THE GAME 


67 


here. Doubtless he is at the hotel now.” Then 
he seemed to take in the situation. “Egad, 
Senator, where is your telephone?” 

An hour later I walked into the library in 
Senator Mason’s home, and into the presence 
of Dorothy. After we had conversed for nearly 
an hour, I said “Dorothy, I have not changed 
in my feelings for you.” 

“Neither have I,” she replied, “but I am 
still bound by my pledge. Please do not say 
any more.” 

The conference between Senator Mason and 
Mr. Swanson resulted in an office for the min¬ 
ing company being established in Chicago, with 
myself as its manager. Thus, once again, I 
came to live in the same city in which Dorothy 
Mason resided. We were much together, but 
the barrier between us remained ever present. 

Some months had passed when one morning 
I received the following letter: 

My dear Mr. Baker: 

At a meeting of the executive committee of 
the Alumni this afternoon, you were nominated 
and elected to deliver the annual address be¬ 
fore our association at Commencement. 


68 


PLAYING 


Will you kindly do us and your Alma Mater 
tlie honor of accepting this responsibility? 

Please let us have your acceptance by return 
mail. 

Very respectfully, 

John Par due, Secretary. 

Yes, this letter was a surprise, and more so 
because the secretary and certain members of 
this executive committee were among those who 
had scoffed and poked fun at preachers’ sons. 

That evening I called on Dorothy. 

“What shall I do?” I asked. 

“Accept of course,” she said, “and do honor 
to yourself, your class, and to . . .” 

“You,” I cried. 

So I accepted. 

I chose as my subject, “The Hand of Des¬ 
tiny,” a rather biblical subject, to be sure. Why 
I chose it I do not know. My address was based 
on the story of the handwriting on the wall. 
I quoted from a noted preacher, his “Thrones, 
Thrones, Thrones,’ and my closing sentence 
was, “The hand of destiny points that way.” 

As I spoke a feeling came upon me which I 
had never experienced before. I knew that 
God’s “call” was ringing in my soul’s ears. 


THE GAME 


69 


Since that night I have been a minister. 

Like you, I am a bachelor. As so often 
happens, friends drift apart. I have not heard 
from Dorothy for a long, long time. In fact, 
I do not know whether she still lives in Chicago, 
nor whether she has ever married. 




























r I 'HE next morning following breakfast they 
were again seated in the club smoker. 

“Well, Carew, I discharged my obligation 
last evening. It is now your turn.” 

“Believe me, that was some story. I regret 
very much that I entered into a compact with 
you. I see I’m in hard luck. But what more, 
or less, could I expect when I gamble with a 
preacher? The son of a preacher, too, at that! 
I do not understand why that coin did not turn 
up the other side so I could have told my story 
first. But that’s the way with any game of 
chance. One travels, and in so doing takes a 
chance on forming new acquaintances. Look at 
ourselves, for instance. If anyone had told me, 
when I started on this trip, that before it ended 
I would be hobnobbing with a preacher, I would 
have asked him how the concrete got into his 
cranium. But chance brought it about this 
way, and really, parson, I’m not sorry. You 
have shown me 'the preacher’ in a new light, 
and as far as that 'divine call’ business is con- 


72 PLAYING 

cemed, I pledge you here and now that I will 
never make sport of it again.’ ’ 

“That’s fine. Perhaps my story may do 
some good after all. Let me tell you, Carew, 
I am much more pleased at meeting you on 
this train than I would have been at meeting a 
clergyman. I told you I have tried to avoid 
narrowness. You give me another viewpoint. 
My vision is broadened—but this is no time 
for philosophizing. You owe me a story and 
I shall not allow you to procrastinate longer. 
I think you are trying to ‘renig’ or ‘stack the 
cards,’ or something like that, and I refuse to 
permit the same. You just as well ‘play your 
trump,’ or ‘show your hand.’ ” 

“Suffering Jehosaphat! Listen at that 
preacher talk—just as though he were in a 
game of cards. I’ll bet you ...” 

“No, you won’t bet me anything. You will 
just start that story.” 

I suppose my folks had a “Family Bible,” 
though I never saw it. To be sure, we had 
Bibles—or a Bible—in the house. I don’t re¬ 
member to have ever connected with it, but I 
know there was at least one there, because I 
heard my mother telling my father that when 


THE GAME 


73 


the preacher came one day he wanted to have 
“prayers” and that when she handed him the 
Bible, she was somewhat mortified to see that it 
was pretty dusty. But of that particular spe¬ 
cies called the “Family Bible” I have no recol¬ 
lection at all. If we did have one and it were 
produced in evidence here, I am sure we would 
find either on the “credit” or “debit” side an 
entry something like this: 

“January 15,18—, a son to David and Minnie 
Carew, Russell, Tennessee, christened Archi¬ 
bald.” 

I am not much superstitious, but you will 
note that I was born in a winter month and in 
the very middle of the same at that. Perchance 
that explains why I have been accused of hav¬ 
ing a rather “cold” disposition, and also why 
I’ve always been rather slow in most every¬ 
thing—arriving at the church “in the middle of 
the sermon,” so to speak. 

I am an only child. Why I was christened 
with such a name I have never determined. If 
I were the thirteenth child, I could credit it to 
my parents having run out of names. Two 
reasons may be assigned as possible explana¬ 
tions. My head may have been similar in ap- 


74 


PLAYING 


pearance to an arch and devoid of hair. But I 
am rather inclined to another reason. If an 
arc/i-hishop is higher in the scale of eminence 
than a mere bishop, then an arc/i-bawler is cer¬ 
tainly in advance of just a bawler. My mother 
often told me that in the first few days of my 
existence I used my vocal chords in such man¬ 
ner of expression constantly. I feel sure, then, 
my given name was by intention designated 
Archibawled —and by poetic or some other kind 
of license it came to be spelled Archibald. Be 
that as it may, such is the term by which I have 
been distinguished from the other members of 
our tribe. 

When I was quite young we moved to Ar¬ 
kansas. 

My father was a pretty shrewd trader. Be- 
ports had come to him of cheap land in Okla¬ 
homa. He decided to sell out in Arkansas and 
try his fortune in the West. Leaving mother 
and myself to come later, after he had located, 
he set forth in a covered wagon. 

Often I have heard him say that it is the 
best policy in making a trade to let the other 
fellow do the talking, and yourself the think¬ 
ing. Father was of this silent sort. In fact, 


THE GAME 75 

among his neighbors, he was known as ‘ 4 Silent 
Dave.” 

There ’s a lot of fine land in Oklahoma, and a 
lot that would be fine if rainfall were more 
abundant. As proof of this, let me cite one in¬ 
stance. About halfway between Clinton and 
Arapahoe is an eight-acre field. A spring-fed 
branch runs along its lower edge, for it is a 
sloping tract. The owner had placed beside 
this branch a gasoline engine. By means of 
elevated piping he irrigated this entire tract. 
I have known him to cut three and four crops of 
alfalfa, when elsewhere the farmers were get¬ 
ting only one or two. Poor crops for a couple 
of years, or even three, in succession, and then 
a productive year comes along, and the crops 
are bumpers in the real true sense. It is in 
these years of depression that many get dis¬ 
couraged and want to sell out. It was in such 
a year that father went there and secured a 
farm. I have often heard him tell it as a 
joke on himself how he got that farm. 

He was driving along the road, when just 
ahead of him a man on horseback came out of 
a barn lot and headed toward father. 

'“Say, mister,” said father, “do you know 


76 


PLAYING 


of any farms for sale cheap around here?” 

“Wall, I reckon there be,” casting his eyes 
over father’s outfit. “Them’s pretty good 
horses ye’re driving? How much yer want fer 
’em?” 

“I had not thought of selling them.” 

“How d’ye like the looks of this farm ye’re 
passin’?” asked the man. 

Father looked around and saw some fairly 
level land, some timber, but the most of it 
looked rough, rocky and hilly. 

“Oh, I dunno,” replied father, dropping into 
the vernacular of the stranger. “How much 
yer got?” 

“Three hundred twenty.” 

“How much ye want fer it?” 

“Wall, stranger, I’ll tell ye what’ll do. I’ll 
give ye the one hundred sixty the cabin and 
barn’s on fer yer team and wagon, and make 
ye a deed today.” 

“I’ll take ye.” 

Father had some money—not a mint—but 
some, and he knew he could buy another team 
and wagon any time, hence he figured it a bar¬ 
gain. They started for town. Father lapsed 
into silence. The other talked a lot. Father 


THE GAME 


77 


broke his silence beyond “yes” and “no” and 
similar expressions akin to mere grants, when 
he remarked that it looked like it might be 
going to rain. The stranger looked at him 
curiously and replied: “If I did not know ye 
fer a newcomer, I’d say ye air a damn fool. It 
never rains around here.” That sure enough 
put a quietus on “Silent Dave.” Furtively he 
watched his new acquaintance and was aware 
that he himself was being sized up, but he did 
not know what estimate had been formed until 
they were in the lawyer’s office having the deed 
drawn up. 

The stranger told the lawyer to make out a 
deed calling for the one hundred and sixty he 
had offered father for the team and wagon, and 
then he stepped over to the lawyer and said in 
low tones, not intending father to hear him, but 
father heard all right, “Just put in the whole 
three hundred twenty. The dern fool can 
neither read nor write—the poor ignorant cuss 
will never know how bad I’ve stung him. ’ ’ 

My early education was obtained in a rural 
school. I then went to high school in the town 
nine miles distant—the closest one to us. I at¬ 
tended there three years and was never absent 


78 


PLAYING 


a day, never tardy once, never made a grade 
below eighty-five, and I rode that nine miles 
every morning and back again every evening. 

I was rather mischievous, however; the 
teacher never knew when I was going to “pull 
off” something; but somehow I managed to do 
it in a way that left them without the heart, 
nerve or inclination to punish me. I recall one 
instance. It was in the ancient history class. 
The teacher was reading to the class from a 
book written by a missionary and entitled 
“Gods and Devils of Mankind.’’ Our lesson 
for that day was concerning the Hindus. The 
passage that was being read treated of the 
Hindu worship of animals. The tribe the mis¬ 
sionary was describing had its sacred cow. 
The story went on to relate how it was believed 
that for future happiness each member of the 
tribe must die holding on to the tail of this 
sacred cow. Everybody in the class, save my¬ 
self, laughed. I suppressed my laughter and 
held up my hand for permission to ask a ques¬ 
tion. The teacher asked: “What is it, Archi¬ 
bald?” 

“Professor,” I inquired, “would not those 
folks have had a pretty rapid entrance into 


THE GAME 


79 


heaven if that old cow had started kicking just 
as they breathed the last breath?” 

The class roared with laughter; so did the 
teacher. I should have been reproved, but es¬ 
caped. As I look back upon that outburst of 
mine, I can see but one thing it proved, and 
that was that it was a certain testimonial tend¬ 
ing to prove me a regular farmer lad, thor¬ 
oughly acquainted with the ways of obstreper¬ 
ous cows. 

As a result of such outbreaks I was consid¬ 
ered a wit by the other pupils. You know what 
I mean. The girls always “fall” for a witty 
fellow, and they did in my case. There was 
one, of course, to whom I was partial in those 
days of “puppy-dog love”—Mamie Craig. 
Well do I remember the first time I kissed her. 
An entertainment was to be given in the church. 
Certain ones of us were drafted to assist in the 
decorating. By prearrangement, Mamie and 
I were the last to leave the church that after¬ 
noon. We stepped behind the door in the vesti¬ 
bule, and—well, I can hear yet the echoing and 
reechoing—I might say the reverberations— 
of that smack. 

Isn’t it a mysterious thing in the lives of 


80 


PLAYING THE GAME 


young folks in their teens which prompts them 
to write notes in school! The fact that they 
see each other five days in every week—and 
the sixth and seventh thrown in many times 
for good measure—almost all day long, does 
not take away the absolute necessity for 
note writing. Mamie and I wrote them in 
abundance. If we had not we would have been 
unusual, which we were not. And how those 
notes were cherished! Each of us had a cigar 
box in our respective desks, hid securely, we 
were foolish enough to believe, behind books 
and tablets. But one night our safety deposit 
boxes were dynamited. Imagine our chagrin 
the following morning to find a complete copy 
of one of the notes of each of us copied upon 
the front blackboard, and duly signed. That 
was the end of our notes and of our cigar boxes, 
and the beginning of the end of our friendship. 
From that time on for some years I was “girl- 
proof.” 


SEVEN 


I took two years in college, at the end of 
which time a strange feeling of restlessness 
possessed me. I tired of school as a student, 
and quit. I taught two terms, and had enough. 

I have often thought the pupils had enough 
of me in the capacity of teacher, too, for as I 
review those two terms I realize what a mon¬ 
ster I was. I had a teacher once who told me 
that if I would soak my head in buttermilk 
with the corner of a rail fence holding it down 
in the liquid, I would have a better disposition 
and more sense. I’ll bet any reasonable 
amount, my pupils, had they known what my 
teacher had said to me, would have wished I 
had put his admonition into practice. I be¬ 
lieved in physical correction—not only believed, 
but practiced it. This ring I am wearing cut 
a gash in one boy’s temple one day. That 
ought to be enough to have caused me to quit 
wearing it, some would say, but I wear it as 
a reminder that I must control my temper. 

I am sorry for those abuses of privileges 
which ought to have been considered with more 


82 


PLAYING 


respect by myself, and if perchance according 
to onr agreement this story should be published 
and any of my former pupils should read it, 
they are invited to accept it as an apology. I 
will likely never see many of them to tell them 
so, although I have since seen the young man 
with whom I had the most difficulty. I had 
‘‘beat him up” as the schoolboys say. This 
was during my first term as a teacher. He quit 
school. There was bad blood between us for 
months. I was told he had threatened me, 
though I never believed it. We finally adjusted 
our grievances, he came back to school the next 
term, and was my right-hand man. 

Time went on until one day 1 happened into 
a certain town. The first person I met was 
this young man. He had married one of the 
girls in school at the time we had had our 
trouble. They had a nice little home, a sweet 
baby, and were very happy. At supper the 
disagreement of the past was mentioned, and 
this big hearted fellow told me that, after all, 
the way I had treated him did him good— 
helped him to be a man. A man he is—sturdy, 
honest, the youngest state senator in that state, 
and is prominently mentioned for congress, ac- 


THE GAME 


83 


cording to a report in the papers recently. So, 
after all, 4 ‘physical religion” may sometimes he 
in place. 

When I decided not to teach any more, I re¬ 
turned to my father’s house from the state 
where I had been trying to pound “book learn¬ 
ing” into boys and girls, and found him almost 
persuaded that he had been stung when he had 
come into possession of that three hundred and 
twenty acres of land. The last three years had 
been almost total failures. It was decided that 
I should spend the next year at home. With 
my help more acres could be cultivated, and if 
crops should flourish, father could retrieve 
certain losses. Our hopes were realized. That 
year was a bumper. 

During that year I did a great deal of think¬ 
ing concerning my future career. Up to this time 
I had not thought of trying story writing, but 
now such a thought came to me and grew on 
me. I decided to make the attempt. There 
was a brilliant field right at home—the Indians. 
In order to collect material, I must travel. 
This would take money. I could not allow 
father to bear this expense for me, so I ap¬ 
plied for and obtained a position as traveling 


84 


PLAYING 


salesman for a school supply house. This took 
me into all sections of the state and afforded 
opportunity for a study of the Indians of to¬ 
day, at close range, to get the history of their 
tribes and their customs. If you have never 
been down there you should go sometime. You 
should visit some city on a government payday. 
Some of these Indians deposit their money in 
the bank, some pay all their bills, some pay 
willingly the first creditor they meet after get¬ 
ting their money, others not so willingly or not 
at all, some are taken in hand by adventurers, 
who sell them things their hearts desire, for 
enormously extortionate sums. This used to 
be truer than now. I well remember one pay¬ 
day for a certain tribe. It was the first time 
I had seen so many Indians, and the most of 
them were wearing blankets. Most of the 
squaws had papooses on their backs. I was in¬ 
tensely interested and hung around. 

Along the street came a man and a woman— 
well-dressed, almost flashily so. They ap¬ 
proached a big fat Indian. I have forgotten 
his name, but will call him ‘‘Long Knife.” 

They said: “Long Knife, have you found a 
black team yet?” 


TEE GAME 


85 


Evidently, they knew that this Indian had 
been seeking a black team of horses. The In¬ 
dian shook his head and grunted something 
which to the man and woman evidently meant 
“No.” 

The man continued: “I’ve got just the 
team you are looking for.” 

“Me look,” said the Indian. 

The trio passed on up the street. I followed 
at a respectful distance and took a stand where 
I could hear and see, and yet not be suspected 
of doing so. 

Long Knife looked the horses over carefully 
and grunted out, “How much?” 

“Eight hundred dollars for the whole outfit, 
team, buggy, harness, robe and whip,” said 
the man. 

“No pay,” said Long Knife. 

There was much talk on the part of the man, 
much shaking of the head on the part of the 
Indian, likewise much grunting, but with all 
a constant gaze at the horses. Finally a deal 
was made, Long Knife being separated from 
six hundred dollars of the money Uncle Sam 
had so recently paid him. Honestly that whole 
outfit was not worth three hundred dollars. 


86 


PLAYING 


But don’t get a wrong impression from these 
things I have told you, for all Indians are not 
this way. There are all degrees among them. 
Very many of them are substantial citizens, 
finely educated, and have obtained prominence. 

Then the oil boom came on. Fields were 
opened up. Men of scant means suddenly be¬ 
came men of wealth. The other side is true as 
well. Men go broke at the game. One in¬ 
stance recurs to me. There was a man of 
means who lost every cent he had. For a time 
he could not get credit for the necessities of 
life. He went to a new field, just being opened 
up; struck it just right. The last time I saw 
him every twenty-four hours made him two 
thousand dollars richer. That is a pretty fair 
income per day, after all. 

I knew another man who one day could have 
bought a hole in the ground for five hundred 
dollars, but declined the offer. This same hole 
was “shot” the following day, and the third 
day sold for fifteen thousand dollars. 

In the section where father lived, though, it 
seemed that there was no prospect for oil. In 
fact, a few years previous to the time of the 
happening I am about to relate, a “dry hole” 


THE GAME 


87 


had been drilled about a mile from our farm. 

But one morning a purchaser for our farm 
called on father, who was in one of his dis¬ 
couraged moods. When the stranger offered 
one hundred thousand dollars for the farm, 
father took him up in a jiffy. He thought it 
was time to even up things. He had some of 
the same thoughts as the man who had taken 
his team and wagon some years previous. The 
sale was made and “home” was tranferred to 
the town nearby. Shortly thereafter a cyclone 
killed my parents and I came into an inherit¬ 
ance which is sufficient to keep me—whether 
I sell my literary productions or not. 

But I wish you could see our farm now. It 
would take you quite a time to count the oil 
wells on it. One hundred thousand dollars was 
only a drop in the bucket. It is a funny thing 
how “dry holes” will, in the course of a few 
years, become “producers.” 















EIGHT 


^pHE traveling salesman has some very 
funny experiences. I went once—only once, 
into a certain small town in the panhandle, ar¬ 
riving there about three o ’clock in the morning. 
It was January, and very cold. I found my¬ 
self in utter darkness. No nightman at the sta¬ 
tion, no bus—there was nothing but darkness. 

If one had told those people in that town that 
the next town up the line had electric lights, 
many of them would have considered him an 
escaped lunatic. There were some progressives 
there, however; enough to prevail upon the ma¬ 
jority to vote a new school building, and that 
was the reason I had gone there—to sell them 
some equipment. 

In the distance I saw a faint light. I wended 
my way toward it, and came to what looked to 
me like one of those old time story-and-a-half 
blacksmith shop buildings, remodeled and built 
onto. The fire was out, the bare floor creaked, 
and made me think of spooks. I made a lot of 
noise and after what seemed to me an age, a 
suit of underwear appeared bringing along a 


90 


PLAYING 


pair of bare feet, a bushy head and two sleepy 
eyes. It spoke: 

“By the wrath of God, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” I replied, “only I want to go to 
bed.” 

“How’d you get here? On twenty-three?” 

“Yes. Have you a bed for me?” 

“Oh, yes, I can put you to bed all right.” 
Thus saying he picked up the lamp and with 
a follow-me air, led the way onto the back 
porch, up some outside steps, through a nar¬ 
row hallway, into a room, the ceiling of which 
was very low, and three window panes out of 
four were missing. There were two beds, but 
no chair; not a nail nor a hook; a box, and on 
it, a small stew-pan. 

Observing me looking around, he seemed to 
understand, and said: 

“Just lay your clothes on one bed if you want 
to.” 

Of course I wanted to, and did. 

I was just ready to blow out the light when 
he returned carrying a pint cup out of which 
he poured into the stewpan some water, re¬ 
marking: “To wash in when you get up.” 

It was now four A. M. I had, it seemed, 


THE GAME 


91 

hardly closed my eyes when there came a lond 
knocking on the door. 

“Well?” I asked. 

‘ 4 Breakfast is ready.’’ 

I opened my eyes—it was still dark. 

“I’ve just retired—what time is it?” 

“Six.” 

“I think I won’t eat until seven thirty.” 

“You’ll eat now or not at all. The old wo* 
man don’t like to be so late washing the dishes.” 

I crawled out. When I was ready to wash, 
I looked into the stewpan, a scum of ice cov¬ 
ered the surface of the water. I broke it, 
dipped one end of the towel therein and pro¬ 
ceeded to apply “ice cold ointment” to my face. 

You’ve seen fat bacon floating around in 
grease, big thick pancakes, and muddy coffee? 
Well, that is what adorned the red table-cloth 
at breakfast that morning. It is needless for 
me to say that I did not eat very much that 
meal. 

I stood around until daylight and then went 
up town. I sold the board a nice bill of goods 
and had just a few minutes in which to catch 
the train. I rushed into the hotel. 

“What is my bill?” 


92 


PLAYING 


“One fifty .’ 9 

“How is that? I had lodging and breakfast. 
Yonr rates are $2.00 per day.” 

“Yes, but yonr clothes mussed np the other 
bed and the old woman had to make it over.” 

I tossed him a dollar, grabbed my grips and 
ran for the train, which I barely caught. As 
the train pulled across the street, I could see, 
in the distance, the landlord wildly gesticulat¬ 
ing to one of the natives. I imagined he was 
telling how I had beat him out of fifty cents. 

Another time I was traveling in Missouri. 
One afternoon I was in a dry goods store in 
conversation with the proprietor. This was in 
a small town and this store was the only large 
establishment of the kind of which it could 
boast. The proprietor consequently had made 
quite a bit of money. 

Although he was not an educated man, in 
the usually accepted meaning of that term, he 
realized the importance of an education and 
was discussing with me his intention of placing 
his daughter in college. He was a big-hearted 
man, kind and sympathetic, broad-minded and 
liberal. 

During this conversation a young man came 
in and presented his card. He was partially 


THE GAME 


93 


paralyzed on his left side, and his left arm 
possessed only a stump of a hand—to be exact, 
only a thumb and a faint indication of fingers. 
His appearance was shabby but clean. The 
card said he was trying to get enough money 
ahead to take a course in stenography, his 
right hand being perfect. We engaged him in 
conversation and understood that he could op¬ 
erate a typewriter. The proprietor, being a 
practical business man, immediately decided to 
test the fellow. He indicated a new Remington 
on the counter and told the young man to show 
what he could do, and requested me to dictate 
something. It was a marvel the way that 
young man made that typewriter hum by using 
his good hand and the thumb of his left. The 
work he turned out was correct, and without 
fault. We gave him a couple of dollars. That 
night, on the way to my hotel, I discovered this 
young man in an intoxicated condition at the 
entrance of an alley. 

Two or three days later I was in another 
town calling upon a merchant. I was seated 
with my back to the door. A card was pre¬ 
sented to this merchant, and I immediately 
recognized the same young man who had tricked 


94 


PLAYING 


me over in the other town. I turned my face 
and listened to his story—the same one he had 
told before. I then faced about and proceeded 
to denounce him in no uncertain manner. 

Five years went by. I was in the state of 
Texas in a very small town—less than five hun¬ 
dred inhabitants—but the seat of a small col¬ 
lege. On a store window I noticed the sign 
‘ ‘ Book Store.’ ’ Having to wait until late that 
night for a train, I immediately bethought me 
of purchasing a book with which to while away 
the time. I entered and came face to face with 
my man of five years previous. 

Hardly would I have recognized him, I think, 
had it not been for his physical condition, for 
he had fleshened considerably, was the picture 
of health, aside from his deformity. His 
clothes were far from shabby. His store as 
well as himself had the air of some prosperity. 

There was in his face an uncertainty of 
recognition. He seemed to think he had seen 
me before and yet was not sure. He kept his 
eyes upon me questioningly. 

I broke the spell by saying: “Stenography 
must be rather a profitable business in these 
parts.’* 


THE GAME 


95 


“You are the man,” he cried. “I’ve hoped 
many times that some day I would meet you 
again.’ ’ 

He grasped my hand with a grip that made 
me almost beg for mercy. 

“Is this your store?” I asked. 

“Sure it’s mine and I got it honestly, too. 
No trickery, mind you.” He thus forestalled 
my next question. 

“Tell me about it.” 

“Sit down and I’ll tell you all about myself,” 
he said, placing a chair for me. 

“My parents died when I was a mere boy 
and I was left to the care of an aunt. Her 
husband, a blacksmith by trade, was not good 
to my aunt, and as for myself he seemed to feel 
that I was in the way. Naturally we quarreled 
often. 

“He was a drinking man. My associates 
were, I confess, of the lower class, and I fell to 
drinking, too. One day a pint of whiskey was 
missing from the place where my uncle always 
kept a little supply. He accused me of taking 
it. I was innocent of the charge, but could not 
convince him. The more we argued, the more 
angry we both became. He threw a horse shoe 


96 


PLAYING 


at me. By dodging, I received only a glancing 
blow, but got enough of it to cause this scar on 
my forehead. My temper broke loose com¬ 
pletely. Picking up a hammer I hurled it at 
him. It hit just right—he fell in a heap—dead. 

“A man had come along just as my uncle 
threw the horse shoe, but despite his testimony 
and my plea of self-defense, I was unable to get 
an absolute acquittal and was given seven years. 

"When I was released I had the usual diffi¬ 
culties an ex-convict always has in getting 
steady employment. I became discouraged and 
began drinking again. 

"I decided that as no one seemed to want to 
give me a chance, as I was shunned and ostra¬ 
cized, as every one put me down as a crook, I 
might just as well be one, and therefore I took 
up the stenography scheme, which I was work¬ 
ing when you saw me five years ago. 

‘ 4 That day when I came upon you the second 
time and received from you such a severe lec¬ 
ture, I almost gave up entirely. I realized that 
what you said to me was true. Thank God, I 
had a little conscience left. 

"You remember the bridge across the river 
at that town in Missouri? Well, when I left 


TEE GAME 


97 


that store after you had exposed me, I went 
down to that bridge with my mind fully made 
up to take a last leap. 

i ‘ If was then that I had rather a crazy 
thought. It came to me that if I went into 
eternity I would likely meet my uncle’s spirit. 
I did not want to do that. I decided to live. 
And then somehow I seemed to suddenly be¬ 
come a sensible thing. Something seemed to 
say to me, ‘If you are going to live, live right.’ 
I made up my mind that I would. 

“But the desire for a drink possessed me. 
I knew I must not take it if I expected to keep 
my new resolution. 

“I went down to the yards and got on a 
freight train. The next morning found me in 
Kansas City. The desire for a drink was 
stronger. I realized that I would have to keep 
moving in order not to break over. 

“ I had a little change. I went to a restaurant 
and bought a sandwich and a cup of coffee. 

“I boarded another freight train, bound I 
knew not where, and I cared less—anywhere 
to keep away from saloons. 

“For several days I kept this up. I was in 
Topeka, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, and other 


98 


PLAYING 


places. My money had given out. I was beg¬ 
ging bread. But not a drop of liquor had I 
taken. No one but the man who has gone 
through this experience knows what a battle I 
had. But now I was beginning to feel that I 
would conquer my appetite. 

‘ ‘ One night I was riding a blind baggage, but 
was discovered when the train stopped for 
water, and was put off. A box car was near. I 
crawled in and went to sleep. When I crawled 
out the next morning I discovered this town. 

“At first the smallness of the place was a 
disappointment. Too small to obtain any 
work. Strange to say, I felt somewhat my own 
master that morning and said to myself that I 
could trust myself to stay in some place, if I 
could find work. But that, too, I considered 
would be hard to find because of my deformity. 

“There was one encouraging feature, how¬ 
ever. The town had no saloon. This I dis¬ 
covered while seeking a ‘handout.’ 

“I just hung around most all day. In the af¬ 
ternoon I went down to the depot, having re¬ 
solved to move on. The station agent was la¬ 
boriously copying something on a second-hand 
typewriter. I had an inspiration. I said to 


TEE GAME 


99 

him: ‘Partner, you don’t know much about 
running a mill, do you?’ 

“He looked at me with an expression of dis¬ 
gust and wanted to know who I was. 

“I replied that I was generally called 
‘Stumpy,’ because of my stump hand, but that 
my name in fact was pronounced Frederick 
Compton. And I added that I could show him 
a few things in typewriting, although I had 
only four fingers and two thumbs, while the 
way he went at it looked to me like he had four 
thumbs and only two fingers. I offered to show 
him in order to prove my statement. 

“Well, the upshot of the demonstration was 
that he had ten pages to copy, for which he was 
willing to pay me twenty-five cents. 

“I said, ‘You’re on,’ and went to work. 

“You know how it is in a small town. About 
all the people have to do is to go down to the 
depot and see the trains go by. That’s about 
the only excitement they have to indulge in. 
They began to come in, and of course they stared 
at me—unshaven, my clothes ragged and dusty. 
I was somewhat clean as to face and hands, be¬ 
cause they had a town well, and a watering 
trough. I had borrowed some soap from the 
agent and washed at this trough. 


100 


PLAYING 


“Of course I was as good as a circus. The 
station agent was joked about his new ‘helper,’ 
his ‘ stenographer,’ or ‘maybe he’s the super 
checking you up,’ etc. They all agreed that 
‘that guy can make that machine whiz.’ 

“Presently I heard several voices say, 
‘Howdy, Doctor,’ I felt a new sensation of 
being watched. A well cared for hand picked 
up a sheet I had just finished. Soon I heard 
some one asking the agent who I was. The 
next thing I knew I was addressed something 
like this: ‘Young man, you seem to understand 
how to run a typewriter pretty well.’ The 
voice was one that sounded full of culture and 
kindness. It continued: ‘Have you come to 
this place to live!’ I replied that my plans 
were indefinite but that I was looking for work. 
Just then the train whistled in and the speaker 
continued: ‘ Something tells me that you really 
need help. If you are truly sincere in wanting 
work, come up to the college in the morning and 
talk with me. I have not time now, as I have 
guests coming on this train.’ 

‘ ‘ I slept in the box car again that night. The 
twenty-five cents the agent paid me provided 


THE GAME 


101 


supper and breakfast at the restaurant. Hav¬ 
ing again washed at the town trough, I went up 
to the college. 

“This college is a small institution, but the 
president is a well educated man. He was 
president of a much larger school at one time, 
but as he began to get on in years, he came here, 
where he has a farm, and took charge of this 
school to keep his ‘brain alive’ as he expressed 
it. Having been in that work so long he felt 
that he would be lonesome out of it. 

“When I met him that morning, he sug¬ 
gested that I tell him how I came to be in such 
a plight. I told him the whole truth, fully ex 
pecting that he would invite me out of his pres¬ 
ence. In this I was disappointed very pleas¬ 
antly. He heard my story patiently and then 
said that he thought he should give me a trial. 
He told me that he had agreed to write a book 
for a certain publishing house. He had it all 
down in longhand and had intended to have 
a girl come out from the city not so very far 
away to typewrite it for him. He offered to 
let me do it, if I cared to. I very gladly ac¬ 
cepted his offer. 

“He provided me with some of his old clothes 


102 


PLAYING 


and agreed to give me board and so much cash. 
By the time we had his manuscript in perfect 
shape for the publishers, several weeks had 
passed. In the meantime the old bachelor who 
had been running this store, died. I concocted 
the plan of getting hold of it. The president 
thought it a good idea, and helped me. Since 
then he has written another book which I copied 
for him. 

“Yes, at first it was hard to make much, and 
even yet I don’t make a million a month, but 
this store and the printing press in the 
rear ...” 

“Printing press?” I cried. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “I concluded this 
town needed a newspaper. So when I had 
gained the confidence of the people here, I took 
up that proposition, and it is a success.” 

“Have you married?” I asked. 

“No. You see the president has kept to 
himself the story of my past life. In this place 
it is our secret—his and mine. I could not 
think of marrying any girl without telling her 
all about myself. And then,” he added, with a 
twinkle in his eye, “this place has always been 


THE GAME 


103 

run by a bachelor. To become a married man 
might change the luck.” 

He was silent for a moment, gazing into 
space, and then added: “Of course, there is 
the daughter of the banker across the way, 
but— 

He was silent again. 

“Well, my friend,” I said, “you got a chance 
and made good. I certainly am glad.” 

“Yes,” he said, “and the satisfaction of it 
all is worth much. I am thankful that I had a 
chance. Would to God there were more men 
in the world who would try to help those who 
have known existence behind prison walls, to 
make men of themselves.” 









































NINE 


£ HAVE woven these incidents into my story 
to show that I had ample opportunity while 
performing my duties as a traveling salesman 
to accomplish my other purpose, that of col¬ 
lecting material for my stories. Perhaps you 
have read some of my short stories on Indian 
Life and other subjects. 

The time had now come when I thought I 
would collect some of my material into a book. 
I resigned my position on the road and went 
to Florida to spend the winter and to write my 
book. 

The season was rather a gay one socially and 
somehow I got into the game. As a consequence, 
I did more of vacationing and attending social 
functions than I did of writing, so that my book 
was delayed. It is out now and I must confess 
that I felt a feeling of pride this morning at 
breakfast when I saw the lady who has the 
lower across from me come into the diner with 
a copy of my book in her hand. Of course, I 
think she has excellent literary taste. 

In Florida, I met a most charming young 


106 


PLAYING 


lady. I had boasted that I was proof against 
any attack Cnpid could make, but I had never 
seen this young lady, nor anyone like her. The 
truth is I am going to Chicago to be married. 

“By the way, parson, you are not in any 
grand rush on this trip, are you? I thought 
not. You see, it’s like this. We had planned 
to have two preachers oversee the job of tying 
this matrimonial knot, because we want a good 
one. She has chosen their pastor, of course. I 
was to bring an old friend of mine, but at the 
last moment he could not come. You must take 
his place. I won’t accept a refusal. Thank 
you. You have to change cars at Chicago, any¬ 
how. You can arrange to stay overnight. To¬ 
night is the time set for the big event, so if 
you’ve got any studying up to do on the cere¬ 
mony, you better get busy. 

“You know, parson, some times you read of 
unusual happenings,—coincidences some call 
them. They read well and yet seem hardly 
possible—impossible—barely plausible. If this 
story is ever printed, there will be many who 
will speak of it in just that manner. In fact, I 
think our meeting on this train is the most re- 


THE GAME 


107 


markable coincidence of which I have ever 
known. 

“I do not want to shock yon too severely, but 
I can vouch for the truth of part of your story, 
for I had heard it before. The young lady I am 
to marry to-night is Dorothy Mason.'’ 











TEN 


r V HE Wolverine was speeding westward. 

Chester Baker was a passenger, going by 
the same route he had taken five years 
previously. 

As he entered the train, he remembered the 
coincidence he had met with before, and won¬ 
dered if one were in store for him this time. 
He was not to be disappointed. The next morn¬ 
ing, in the diner, he sat across the table from a 
man who represents a type frequently encoun¬ 
tered. This species include those who let their 
imaginations run away with them. They have 
fundamental facts and build upon them extrava¬ 
ganzas—the remarkable thing being that, while 
their narratives may be interesting, they are 
improbable, and the narrator loses sight of the 
certainty of the listener’s ability to discern be¬ 
tween the true and the untrue in the recital. 
As in this case, the narration usually starts and 
ends with a truth, but the part in between these 
extremes is most frequently ridiculously absurd. 


110 


PLAYING 


Chester Baker’s imaginative chance acquaint¬ 
ance was very much agitated because the train 
was two hours late. 

“I hope we don’t lose any more time,” re¬ 
marked the stranger. “If we do, I’ll miss my 
appointment with J. Coe, in Chicago.” 

“Let us hope for the best,” replied Chester 
Baker. 

“That’s what J. Coe always said, says and 
will continue to say. 

“Well, J. Coe has been successful, all right, 
in his way. He has made a pile of money, and 
has spent considerable, too.” 

“His business, may I ask?” 

“A Distributer of Intelligence.” 

“That’s a new one. It might mean some¬ 
thing very important and then again it might 
indicate quite the reverse. It depends on how 
you look at it.” 

“It’s important, all right. He is at the head 
of a publishing house now, but the early part 
of his career and how he came by his title is a 
rather unique story. I told him one day that I 
thought it a far cry from one’s real title, when 
it happens to be a very short one, like J. Coe, 
to a high-sounding one, like “A Distributer of 


THE GAME 


111 


Intelligence.” The truth is, J. Coe was just 
a plain, everyday book-agent, and that's where 
the distributer part comes in. The intelligence 
part didn't have to come—it was already in, 
for J. Coe really had intelligence—aside from 
that which he carried around and handed out 
(he made delivery and collected cash right on 
the spot, in the form of ‘ The Expurgated En¬ 
cyclopedia'). 

“When the president of a certain college, 
who was somewhat of a punster, introduced 
him, as ‘A Distributer of Intelligence,' it was a 
new ione on J. Coe. It took him some seconds to 
understand why the audience laughed. The 
audience itself did not know why, perhaps, but 
it was so in the habit of laughing whenever the 
punster president made an announcement, that, 
no doubt, it would have laughed had he an¬ 
nounced that the ‘ancient professor' of history 
had suddenly departed this life—said professor 
being a spinster of fifty-odd years, not much 
beloved by her pupils—but that is irrelevant to 
the subject. 

“Having been thus introduced, J. Coe 
stepped forward and delivered his address on 
the subject, ‘My Trip Through China'.” 


112 


PLAYING 


“It would have been nearer the truth to have 
said that J. Coe had been a book-agent, for 
there was a time when he devoted all his ener¬ 
gies in that direction; but now he was half 
book-agent and half lecturer. He supple¬ 
mented his commissions on the sale of these 
books by writing ahead to colleges, normals, 
clubs, etc., making dates for ten dollars a date, 
to tell of his experiences in China, a trip 
through which country he had taken by virtue 
of—but thereby hangs this tale. 

“You see, J. Coe—his whole name has to be 
given, because no one, not even himself (his 
parents being dead), knows what the < J > 
stands for—had come to consider himself the 
best salesman of reference works on the stage 
of action. Others sold to the possible few— 
those who really wanted books. J. Coe sold not 
only to these, but also to the impossible many— 
those who did not want any books, had no use 
for an encyclopaedia, and emphasized this by 
handing over to J. Coe the necessary amount of 
cash for the work he was offering for sale. 

“It was he who called one morning on Mr. 
Daniel Webster (the one that lived in the twen¬ 
tieth century, A. D.), a very illiterate man, but 


THE GAME 


113 


endowed with enough natural sense to have 
risen to an important connection with a large 
corporation. 

“ 4 Is this Mr. Daniel Webster V asked J. Coe. 

“ ‘Yes.’ 

“ ‘Mr. Webster, I am representing Sellum 
and Getcash, who have put out The Expurgated 
Encyclopaedia. I want to explain it to you, 
because I know you are always on the lookout 
for all the best things on the market. ’ 

“ ‘Nothin’ doin’,” replied Mr. Webster. 

“ ‘I am surprised that a man, bearing the 
name of one of his illustrious forbears, 
should . . . ’ 

“ ‘It’s for bears, you say? Well, I haven’t 
got no bears. ’ 

“ ‘No, you do not understand me, Mr. Web¬ 
ster, it’s for men, women and children. You 
have a boy in high school. This will be of great 
value to him.’ 

“ ‘What did you call it?’ 

“ ‘An Encyclopaedia. The Ex . . . ’ 

“ ‘I don’t want it. I ain’t ready to have my 
boy kill himself yet. I saw Baker Grabgold’s 
son riding one of them durn contraptions down 
the street yesterday. He fell off and nearly 
broke his neck. ’ 


114 


PLAYING 


“ ‘But, Mr. Webster, I’m selling a book.’ 

“ ‘A book-agent, eh! Well, I’ve long since 
learned that there is only one way to get rid 
of such leeches. How much is it!’ 

“It was J. Coe who, one time, was distri¬ 
buting intelligence out west. He heard of a 
certain railroad official, to whom no agent had 
ever been able to sell an encyclopaedia. He felt 
it his conscientious duty and religious obliga¬ 
tion to distribute some intelligence to the afore¬ 
said official. Having made due inquiry, he as¬ 
certained that, to get into the officer’s presence, 
it would be necessary to get by seventeen minor 
officers, send his card in via the route of thir¬ 
teen door-boys, and that each process would re¬ 
quire from two hours to two days. He did some 
figuring. Here were thirty processes which 
would require from sixty hours to sixty days— 
more likely the latter. Too much! He thought 
some more. He decided to get a slice of the 
official’s money that very day. He rushed to 
the telephone. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Give me one three, one three. Hello! One 
three, one three! I want to speak to Mr. G. P. 
Agent.’ 


THE GAME 


115 


“ ‘He is busy now.’ 

“ ‘I can’t help that. Put him on the wire.’ 

“ ‘It is against instructions. I’ll lose my 
position. I’ll be discharged.’ 

“ ‘Well, you will be discharged one thousand 
and steen times if G. P. A. finds out that I called 
and you refused to put him up.’ 

“ ‘All right.’ 

“ ‘Hello! Mr. G. P. Agent! This is J. Coe 
of . . . ’ 

“ ‘J. Who!’ 

“ ‘ J. Coe of ... ’ 

“ ‘Yes, yes. What do you want!’ 

“ ‘Your attention, first of all—please stop 
breaking in. ’ 

“ ‘All right. Be quick.’ 

“ ‘I am J. Coe, of New York. I want you to 
take lunch with me to-day. An important mat¬ 
ter which will take only a few minutes to settle. 
You haven’t time to have me fooling around 
your office, and I haven’t time to spend from 
sixty hours to sixty days getting in there. Will 
you come!’ 

“ ‘I never heard of you before. You may be 
some desperado, anarchist or something of that 
sort.’ 


116 PLAYING 

u i Don’t be scared. I’m a red-headed little 
lamb. May I expect yon?’ 

11 ‘ Where are you stopping V 

“ ‘At the Hotel de Indigestion. I’ll wait in 
the lobby for you. Have me paged. I’m reg¬ 
istered—though maybe I’m not a perfect thor¬ 
oughbred. ’ 

u 6 A man with the brass and gall you seem 
to have is worth a lookover. I ’ll take a chance, 
anyhow. ’ 

' ‘ That afternoon J. Coe left town with not 
only a portion of Mr. G. P. Agent’s money in 
his pocket, but also with a promise from that 
official gentleman to write an article on rail¬ 
roads for the next edition of the encyclopaedia, 
and which J. Coe had promised to have pub¬ 
lished over the officer’s autograph. 

“ There was a time, before J. Coe reformed, 
that he had quite an intimate acquaintance with 
old John Barleycorn. One time, down in a 
Southern state, old John played his friend a 
mean, low-down trick. He took him out to show 
him a 'good time,’ and, before he brought him 
back, he had picked his pockets of every cent 
J. Coe had, and left him stranded, with a week’s 
hotel bill crying for settlement. This was when 


THE GAME 


117 


J. Coe reformed and turned his back on his 
erstwhile friend; to this day he has never 
spoken to him again. 

‘ ‘ Poor J. Coe was in a pitiful plight. There 
was no Bible handy, so he took up the telephone 
directory for advice and inspiration. The long¬ 
est classified list in this directory was that of 
Doctors of Osteopathy. An idea struck J. Coe 
in several places all at once—notably his head, 
hands and feet. While thinking with his head, 
he put out his hands for his sample encyclo¬ 
paedia, and his feet moved toward the door. 
Those osteopaths needed some intelligence dis¬ 
tributed to them, for an ample financial consid¬ 
eration, of course. 

“The doctors concurred in this thought that 
had come to J. Coe. Every one of them bought, 
except a woman. Her tongue was so long that 
J. Coe could not get close enough to her to ex¬ 
plain his proposition. 

“This success rather inflated our salesman’s 
opinion of himself. He told his manager one 
day that he believed he could sell ‘ The Expur¬ 
gated Encyclopaedia’ to any living human, pro¬ 
vided he could get close enough to explain his 
proposition. 


118 


PLAYING 


“He was so self-confident that some of his 
friends made up this story, and have great fun 
at J. Coe’s expense and much to his embarrass¬ 
ment, now, in relating it. 

“The manager looked at him thoughtfully 
for a moment, and then replied: 

“ ‘I believe you, and I have a job especially 
intended for you. The present edition of our 
encyclopaedia must be disposed of at an early 
date. At the rate we are selling now in North 
America, we will not use up our stock. We 
must branch out into other countries. 

“ ‘I’ve always felt sorry for the ruler of 
China—the Emperor, the President, the Em¬ 
peror-President, or President-Emperor, or 
whatever his title may have been changed to 
since yesterday. It doesn’t make any differ¬ 
ence about the title. I am not sorry for it, but 
for the poor chap who has to be called by it. 

“ ‘I’m rather rusty on Chinese history, but 
you know it is recorded that the inhabitants of 
that country are strong on this seeking after 
knowledge, in accordance with what they con¬ 
ceive knowledge to be. I remember to have 
read how even the real old men keep on trying 
to pass an examination on certain old books, 


THE GAME 


119 


which some philosopher wrote a long time ago. 
I do not know just how long ago this was, but 
it was quite a while before the War of the 
American Revolution. These books have never 
been revised and brought down to date—at 
least, I am sure they do not mention anything 
about Bryan, Harding, Wilson, or Henry Ford, 
although they are supposed to contain all the 
important information a man should have to be 
considered well educated. 

“ ‘Just imagine an old, gray-haired man, 
walking miles and miles every year, over to the 
capital of the monarchy, or republic, whichever 
it is, and trying to pass a satisfactory exam¬ 
ination, hoping to make a grade of seventy-five 
per cent., anyhow. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Then, there ’s the ruler who has to conduct 
these examinations. I don’t see how he has 
any time to do any ruling, governing, and dic¬ 
tating of laws, because he has so many exam¬ 
inations to give. I really am sorry for both 
the examiner and the examined. 

“ ‘Somehow, I feel moved to help out both 
sides of this unfortunate situation. Suppose 
each of these seekers after intelligence had a 
copy of our book, which is expurgated and up- 


120 


PLAYING 


to-date. They would not have to make more 
than two or three trips to the capital before 
they would have made a passing grade. They 
would be sure of one thing, that the examination 
questions would all be taken from one book in¬ 
stead of seven, or is it seventy-seven, whereas, 
heretofore they have never known, until in the 
examiner’s presence, on which book the ques¬ 
tions were to be based. 

“ ‘ The examiner, instead of having to hunt 
through a whole pile of books every few days 
in order to make up a new list of questions, 
could confine himself to just one book. This 
would give him more time for the affairs of 
state, and an occasional chance to play a game 
of golf. 

“ 4 So I have decided to send an ambassador 
to these folks, who will set them on the short 
and royal road to a complete and well-rounded 
education. 

“ ‘I have chosen you—the Honorable J. Coe 
—as minister plenipotentiary in this matter.’ 

“ ‘But our encyclopaedia is printed in Eng¬ 
lish. These Chinamen don’t know how to read 
English,’ objected J. Coe. 

“ ‘I’ve got that all fixed,’ replied the man- 


THE GAME 


121 


ager. ‘I’ve bought up a large number of Chi- 
nese-English lexicons in the fifteen-cent edition. 
To every Chinaman who buys an encyclopaedia 
you give, free gratis, one of these lexicons. For 
that matter, you can give two or three of them 
to the same person, if it will help any, because 
we will charge five dollars more per copy for 
the encyclopaedia in China than in North Amer¬ 
ica.’ 

“ J. Coe having no further objections to offer, 
accepted the appointment. 

“Arrived in China, accompanied by about 
ten thousand copies of ‘The Expurgated En¬ 
cyclopaedia,’ and armed with letters of introduc¬ 
tion from Billy Sunday, Bud Fisher and Ty 
Cobb, he set about the task before him. 

“He called first on the Emperor. As luck 
would have it, this was one of the numerous 
examination days. There were, by actual count, 
three hundred and thirteen in the inquisition 
chamber. J. Coe walked right in without knock¬ 
ing, and presented his credentials to the royal 
examiner. Said examiner didn’t show much in¬ 
terest in the letters from Billy Sunday and Bud 
Fisher, but when he saw the signature of ‘the 
Georgia Peach,’ he smiled all over his face, clear 


122 


PLAYING 


down to the cord that fastened his royal robe. 
He grabbed J. Coe around the neck, and wept 
tears of joy as he said: 4 And, my friend, the 
Peach, is still alive. When he was over here, 
he taught me the game of golf. Welcome to our 
country.’ 

“Greetings being over, J. Coe proceeded to 
explain his proposition to the entire three hun¬ 
dred and thirteen, the Emperor acting as in¬ 
terpreter. 

“He made not only a hit, but a home run. 
He sold three hundred and thirteen copies, cash 
in hand, right there. 

“The Emperor sent forth a royal edict, com¬ 
manding every one on whom His Excellency, 
the Honorable J. Coe, Minister Plenipotentiary 
from Sellum and Getcash, should call, to pur¬ 
chase a copy of ‘The Expurgated Encyclo¬ 
paedia. ’ 

“A few days later, J. Coe cabled his man¬ 
ager: 

“ ‘Send over more copies. The whole king¬ 
dom has encyclopaediaitis. Wire Ty the Em¬ 
peror’s greetings. ’ ” 

Just as this narrative was finished, the train 
stopped at Niles, Michigan. 


TEE GAME 


123 


“Here’s the town Ring Lardner helped to 
make famous,’’ said the stranger. 

11 That’s right. Lardner was born here. ’ ’ 

“Well, that’s history for you; the associa¬ 
tion of the names of men and the names of 
towns. When you speak of Detroit, Henry 
Ford is in your thoughts. The same is true 
of Hannibal, Missouri, and Mark Twain; Oys¬ 
ter Bay and Teddy Roosevelt; and I’m willing 
to bet a thousand dollars that a certain little 
town in the White Mountains, the memory of 
Carew, and Mrs. Carew herself, will spring 
into greater prominence as soon as we bring 
this new book off the press.” 

“Carew? The memory of him? Mrs. 
Carew?” 

“Yes, Archibald Carew. He wrote a number 
of short stories and one or two hooks. But this 
one we are now bringing off is a wonder. It is 
too bad Carew could not have lived to witness 
the sensation it is sure to create. He had it 
almost finished when he went to war. Recently, 
Mrs. Carew, at our suggestion, completed it.” 

“I knew Carew,” calmly declared Chester 
Baker. 

“Is that so? He was a fine fellow. His 


124 


PLAYING THE GAME 


widow and I were children together. She is 
the daughter . . . ’ 

“Of Senator Mason—Dorothy Mason Carew. 
I was one of the officiating clergymen at their 
wedding.’ ’ 

“Not the one Carew met on the train?” 

“The same.” 

“Well, sir, when Carew told J. Coe and my¬ 
self about meeting up with you, we were rather 
skeptical. It seemed too improbable. I cer¬ 
tainly will give the Distributor of Intelligence 
some information this afternoon when I meet 
him in Chicago. You know, J. Coe thinks he 
is the only one hundred per cent, coincidence 
human at large, but this eclipses any of his ex¬ 
periences. He won’t say much, but that little 
will be forceful. He will just look at me a min¬ 
ute and then he will say: ‘Well, I’ll be 
damned.’ ” 


ELEVEN 


T^OROTHY MASON again! 

Chester Baker had been sure that she had 
passed ont of his life, except that memory of 
her still existed, and even the strange incidents 
which kept recalling her in memory seemed to 
awaken none of the one-time love, for as an hon¬ 
est man, playing the game, he had felt snre that 
all that was buried with the past. In fact, as 
the years had passed, even memory had seemed 
to grow forgetful. 

He now recalled his thoughts of the morning 
following the wedding. Was it, or was it not, 
strange that he had had no feeling of envy that 
he was not becoming the helpmate of Dorothy 
Mason? He had gladly played his part and had 
sent them away with his blessing. Even if he 
had felt discontent, he would have played the 
game just the same. 

He remembered an editorial he had read the 
next morning after the wedding, built around 
the thought that individual discontent is bred 
of envy; envy of the good fortune of others, of 
their jobs, their positions in society; the idea 


126 


PLAYING THE GAME 


of contentment is not reactionary; getting the 
most out of daily living, no matter how far it 
may fall short of ideal surroundings and condi¬ 
tions, does not mean that submissive acquies¬ 
cence of will which stagnates personal progress. 

He recalled the last paragraph of that edi¬ 
torial, which ran thus: “There is a fine old 
American slogan which seems rather to have 
been forgotten lately, 'Play the game.’ ” 

Five years ago he had resolved that he would 
make that slogan effective so far as his own life 
was concerned. 

Now, five years later, he had the conscious¬ 
ness that he had done so. Anew, he determined 
to continue to do so. 

From this chance acquaintance in the diner 
he had learned for the first time that Archibald 
Carew had gone to the great war, from which 
he himself was just returning, having been a 
chaplain. He lived it over again, and mused 
on the action of fate which had bereaved a wife 
of a husband and had permitted him, with no 
family cares, to return sound in mind and body. 


TWELVE 


/ TpHE next day after his arrival at his new 
A pastorate, which was in Michigan, Chester 
Baker took a long walk. He came to a small 
mountain, which he afterwards learned is called 
“Prospect Hill.” 

This eminence is in the center of an expanse 
which for beauty is almost unequaled. From 
its summit can be seen for miles around scat¬ 
tered forests, flowers, dotting lakes with their 
resorts, fields of grain, orchards, vineyards, 
farm houses, highways, herds of cattle; in win¬ 
ter months, frost and snow and ice; to the 
north, nearest the horizon rises the smoke of 
Brampton’s factories. Sunrise and sunset were 
never more glorious than as seen from Pros¬ 
pect’s top. 

One lone tree towered from its summit, re¬ 
minding one of the painting of the “Lone In¬ 
dian.” In fact, a legend has it that once the 
Indians frequented this hill as a vantage 
ground for reconnoitering, and that later set¬ 
tlers were hunting for this legendary mountain, 
when they found the convergence of Indian 


128 


PLAYING 


trails at the point where Brampton now stands. 

Late that afternoon, Chester Baker was lean¬ 
ing against this lone tree, drinking in the beau¬ 
ties before him, when he saw some one approach¬ 
ing along the solitary upward trending road. 
She came leisurely, and as she drew nearer 
something familiar began to attract his atten¬ 
tion. 

His heart asked: 4 ‘Whom seest thou?” 

The answer was: “I see her whom I loved, 
lost, seemed to forget, but whom I now know I 
have always loved. The most wonderful woman 
into whom God ever breathed the breath of life; 
the woman altogether lovely.” 

And a still small voice whispered: “I will 
restore her to thee to requite thy heart’s de¬ 
sire. ’ ’ 

Dorothy had almost reached the summit be¬ 
fore she was aware of the presence there of 
anyone. If she had noticed it, her bewildered 
expression upon seeing Chester Baker standing 
there was proof that she had never expected to 
see him. 

“Chester Baker, how came you here?” 

“I have just recently returned from my war 
service in France and I have been in Brampton 


THE GAME 


129 


only since yesterday. I am to be the pastor 
there.’’ 

“War?” she said, and looked into the dis¬ 
tance with thoughtful eye. 

“What are you doing here, Dorothy?” 

“Father, for a number of years, brought the 
family to that resort you see over there for the 
summer vacation. Later he purchased that 
farm you see to the north. The house is just 
behind that clump of trees. I have been here 
with father and mother ever since . . . , but 
come, we will walk over to the house and I will 
tell you all about it . 9 ’ 

The intervening distance was traversed in al¬ 
most entire silence. Undoubtedly thoughts were 
surging through the minds of both of them and 
and neither of them seemed to have any inclin¬ 
ation to talk. 

“Come, Chester, we will sit on the upper 
gallery . 9 ’ 

She excused herself for a minute, returning 
with some papers. 

After a few commonplace remarks, Chester 
said: “Now, Dorothy, I want to hear your 
story.” 

“You spoke of war. Its cruelties brought 


130 


PLAYING 


me here. Archibald gave his services very soon 
after the entrance of the United States into it. 
One evening he shut himself in his library and 
stayed there all night. I supposed he was work¬ 
ing on his new book. Many times he wrote all 
night long. But the next morning he handed 
me this paper: 

“ ‘In times of great national peril, such as the 
present, the duties of an American citizen are 
enlarged and multiplied. Men who are on the 
point of achieving their highest ambitions are, 
nevertheless, ready to scrap their success at 
the call of duty, well knowing that it is a trivial 
thing to themselves and their families, com¬ 
pared to having their names on the country’s 
roll of honor. Patriotism is evidenced by the 
voluntary efforts of the individual to secure 
benefits not personal to himself. It is the spirit 
born of love and reverence that exalts and per¬ 
fects citizenship; that extends man’s vision 
beyond personal interests; that purifies his 
soul by eliminating selfishness and inspiring 
sacrifice and public benefaction. Extraordi¬ 
nary duties are imposed upon us by the appeal 
to arms, and we may not shirk them without 


THE GAME 


131 


ignominy and lowering the standard of citi¬ 
zenship. ’ 

“What are you going to do, Archibald 
Carew?” I asked. 

“ ‘ I am going to war,’ he replied. 

“He went. He gave his life for this grand 
cause. I experienced sorrow but not regret. I 
hope I am too much a patriot for that.” 

“Dorothy, I have not yet told you that I have 
heard of that book you thought Archibald was 
working on that night. I met a representative 
of your publishers on the train the other day. 
He told me about it, about Archibald going into 
the conflict never to return, about you having 
completed the manuscript. He did not tell me 
where you were, and I had no idea of meeting 
you here. 

“Archibald was a manly man. It was a sac¬ 
rifice to leave you. No doubt he felt that his 
new book would be a success, and it was a sacri¬ 
fice for him to leave off writing it. But his 
character was firm and enduring. He was 
square with his fellowmen, law-abiding, lived in 
an orderly manner, and set a fine example. His 
conception of the ideal ran true. His reflection 


132 


PLAYING THE GAME 


is that of a strong personality, modest, fine-spir¬ 
ited. I can say no more than that I sincerely 
sympathize with you . 1 ’ 

The following Thanksgiving in a parsonage 
in Brampton was the occasion for a great deal 
of thankfulness. 

At the breakfast table Dorothy asked : 

‘ ‘ Chester, do you remember your graduation 
day? Do you recall what you so much wanted 
me to say?” 

‘ i Of course I do, my dear. ’ 1 

“Chester, I now know that all through your 
life you have been doing your best, not only for 
yourself, your class, and your country, but also 
for me.” 


“SCARLET” 

















JDEVEREND John Lambert sat on his front 
porch watching a man in a row-boat bat¬ 
tling with the waves on the lake. It was mid¬ 
afternoon, and a very warm one. Soon he dis¬ 
cerned that the rower was trying to make in to 
the beach in front of his cottage. Plainly the 
man was inexperienced in handling a boat, so 
John Lambert went down to the shore to be pre¬ 
pared to render any assistance that might be 
needed. Luckily none was required. As the 
boat came nearer, Mr. Young was disclosed as 
the occupant of it. Having assisted in getting 
the boat up on the shore, Lambert addressed 
the flushed and perspiring Mr. Young. 

“You handled that boat like a novice/ , 

“I was true to form—or lack of it,” replied 
Mr. Young. “That was the first time I ever 
tried to handle a boat on a lake. A long time 
ago I rowed on a mill pond, but this is so very, 
very different. ” 

“I should say it is, especially with the waves 
cutting up like they are to-day.’ ’ 

“It wasn’t so much the physical exertion,” 


136 


PLAYING 


explained Mr. Young. 4 4 It was something in¬ 
side of me. Fear, I must confess. When I was 
very young an old river captain took me across 
the Mississippi in a skiff at flood time. The 
river had overflowed its banks and was rough 
and surging. Since then I have had a terrible 
fear of the water. Some of the acquaintances 
I have made at the hotel have joked me quite 
severely because of this aversion of mine. So 
this morning I resolved to put an end to their 
raillery by rowing out here and back again. 
Foolish, wasn’t it?” 

“I would not say that it is a foolish ambition 
to desire to conquer fear, but you unwisely chose 
a day when the physical conditions were against 
you. I have spent many hours on the lake, but 
I, with my experience, would not have attempted 
it today. 

‘ ‘ Come, sit on the porch. We will chat awhile. 
Toward evening the waves may subside. Then 
you can finish your resolve. I’ll go back with 
you if you want me to, and if it still continues 
rough, you can walk back and I ’ll tow your boat 
over tomorrow. ’ ’ 

When they were seated on the porch, John 
Lambert continued: 


TEE GAME 


137 


Many men are captives of fear, and other 
things as well. I do not mean fear which may 
be defined as reverence. I mean the constant 
expectation of evil and danger; the disposition 
to regard things with apprehension; the con¬ 
tinual feeling of anxiety; the living, daily, in 
an atmosphere of dread. The red danger line 
looms up as a ghoulish thing, hideous and terri¬ 
ble. To live in such a state of anticipation robs 
one of most of his prospects for success. 

It is a thousand wonders you did not tip your 
boat over, just because you were afraid. I 
know an old fisherman who believes in his phil¬ 
osophy that no person ever drowned in water. 
He maintains that people drown in fear. He 
goes so far as to contend that no circumstance 
occurs on the water in which a man cannot save 
himself if he is without fear, except in cases 
of physical injury and its attendant conditions. 
Of course, that is going pretty far in the realm 
of possibilities, but part of his philosophy is 
very true. 

I am not a thorough fatalist, but I do believe 
in accepting situations as they really are, and 
then putting one’s best into action to make bet¬ 
ter the good, and successful, those that savor of 


138 


PLAYING 


failure. Fata Morgana has always been to me 
a good fairy because she warns me against fan¬ 
tastic conceptions and at the same time admon¬ 
ishes me to prepare in advance for triumph 
over my conception of danger, should it prove 
true in any degree. 

One morning I was in my office, busily en¬ 
gaged in study, when back of me some one said: 

“I want to tell you the story of my life. ?J 

I looked around, somewhat irritated at the 
abrupt interruption, and beheld a hulking fel¬ 
low—a human mastless ship. His shoulders 
were stooped, and his knees bent forward. His 
cheeks were drawn, his jaws set. A long red 
moustache, streaked with white, hid his mouth, 
and jerked a little as if his lips were twitching. 
The only other thing I saw to relieve the im¬ 
mobility of his face was the restlessness of his 
hungry gray eyes. 

Responding to my first impulse, I replied: 

“Perhaps the story of your life would not 
interest me.” 

A cloud seemed to pass over his countenance, 
he looked down at the slouch hat he was twirling 
in his nervous fingers, and answered: 


THE GAME 


139 


“But it will; I know it will; I’m an ex¬ 
convict. ’ 9 

The simplicity, the confidence and the frank* 
ness of his statement impressed me and soft¬ 
ened my feelings toward him. In his words I 
read a combination of humility, expectation of 
assistance, a longing to be free from the shack¬ 
les of something—all these tinged with an ele¬ 
ment of fear lest his mission end in failure. His 
frank and voluntary admission that he had 
been a prisoner was something new to me, for 
the ex-convict’s first impulse is to deny such a 
personal experience, to cover it up, to hide his 
disgrace from the eyes of the world. He en¬ 
deavors, foolishly, to represent his life as one 
of continuous freedom; to drop from recogni¬ 
tion entirely, his years of captivity. This ten¬ 
dency springs not wholly from within the man 
himself. It is prompted, made to grow and ex¬ 
ist by the cruel attitude of society. If, per¬ 
chance, it may he true that in the majority of 
cases the disposition and effort to assist such an 
one to re-establish himself have resulted in 
failure, is that any reason for refusing to con¬ 
tinue these endeavors ? Absolutely none. 

Society is false to its trust in this particular, 


140 


PLAYING 


because it allows an occasional man or woman 
to experience the blessedness of this privilege, 
while in general it draws its holier-than-thou 
robes about itself and passes by on the other 
side. 

Some time ago the magazines were full of 
this statement of a certain cabinet member: 
“Wanted: Men to discover America.’’ Had 
that man exclaimed: “Wanted: Men to dis¬ 
cover themselves,” or “Wanted: Society to 
help men discover themselves,” ninety-nine 
chances to one it would have been considered 
so commonplace that, if published at all, the 
most obscure space would have been allotted 
to it and the smallest available type would have 
been used. The real truth of the matter is, how¬ 
ever, that if society in America, or Europe, or 
Asia, or Africa, will help men to discover them¬ 
selves, the resources of all these nations will be 
easily disclosed. To assist those who have 
“done time” to re-establish themselves is in di¬ 
rect line with the general procedure, for the 
world has not suffered in any wise from such 
regenerations. 

“How did you happen to come to me?” I 
asked him. 


THE GAME 


141 


He named the man who had sent him. I felt 
a feeling of wonder—perhaps colored with sus¬ 
picion—because the man whose name he called 
was not highly regarded in the community. His 
mission in life seemed to be to stir up trouble. 
He had led an opposition movement to certain 
civic reforms I had sponsored. I had been told 
that he had said that his faction would “get 
me.” To me he was the personification of the 
expression ‘ ‘ the meanest man. ’ 9 

“Why did he send you to me!” I next in¬ 
quired. 

“At one time he lived neighbor to me. He 
knows my story. I met him on the street this 
morning and told him I was up against it. He 
said he could not help me, but that if I would 
call on the Reverend John Lambert he thought 
I might find assistance. He thinks you are the 
gamest fighter he ever saw.” 

I could not help momentarily musing on the 
importance of being without fear. I was glad, 
also, even though it hinged around me person¬ 
ally, somewhat, to find that there was a live 
spark — that of respect — somewhere in the 
make-up of my “meanest man.” 


142 


PLAYING 


“Sit down,” I invited. “Tell me your 
story. ’ ’ 

“My name is Thomas,” he began. “ ‘Big 
Red’ some called me because of my red com¬ 
plexion. Others designated me as ‘ Scarlet ’ be¬ 
cause of this red scar on my cheek. This scar 
means nothing at all except that a mule nearly 
put me out of business. 

“In the winter months I worked in the shops. 
The rest of the year I operated a little truck 
farm, five miles from town, and which I rented. 
I made a scant living, but we were happy—my 
wife and I—and we did the best we could. 

“So far as we knew we had only three living 
relatives—my wife’s cousin, his wife, and their 
fourteen-year-old daughter. His wife and he 
both died during a smallpox epidemic, and the 
problem of what to do with the girl was a mat¬ 
ter for solution. We had very little to offer, 
but such as we had we extended, and the court 
gave her to us. She was a beautiful girl, and 
exceptionally apt in her studies. She wanted 
to be a stenographer. My wife took in washing 
to provide the money for her training. When 
she had completed the course, she obtained a 
good position in the office of a well-known resi- 


TEE GAME 


143 


dent, prominent in the business and church af¬ 
fairs of the community. She had no young men 
friends so far as we knew. Our lowly circum¬ 
stances did not seem to encourage them. She 
was never out at night, and arrived home 
promptly from her work. 

“My wife and I had been childless up to this 
time, but a great joy was in our hearts because 
of the prospects in the near future. 

“For some time we had noticed a change in 
the temperament of our ward. Silence, sullen¬ 
ness and dullness had taken the place of viva¬ 
ciousness and alertness. She said she was over¬ 
worked. One evening, when I returned home 
after an all-day absence, I found my wife in an 
excited mood. She took me aside and told me 
that all was not well with our ward and that the 
girl accused me. My wife explained that she 
was excited only because of the girl’s condition 
and the things she had done, and not because 
she thought me guilty. She told me also that 
the girl had been advised by some one to have 
me arrested and that a warrant had been sworn 
out for me; that the girl herself had gone that 
afternoon to the receiving home in a nearby 
town. 


144 


PLAYING 


“I was dumfounded. I was innocent. I 
was grieved at the girl’s ungratefulness. I was 
terror-stricken at the prospect of arrest. I was 
heartbroken over the plight of my faithful wife. 
And while I was yet dazed from the blow, the 
officers came for me and took me away to jail. 
Something superhuman seemed to take hold of 
my wife. She smiled and kissed me good-bye, 
and bade me not to worry, as she knew I was 
innocent and would soon be home again. 

‘ ‘ Had I been a rich man, more than likely I 
would have come free. Even guilty rich men 
do every day. I was a poor man. I had no 
funds and no friends. I could not furnish bail, 
and the court had to appoint an attorney to rep¬ 
resent me—the kind a poor man usually gets— 
a hanger-on of the court, looking only for the 
pittance of reward and with no ambition to win 
for his client. 

‘ 6 The trial came on. The prosecutor was one 
of the keenest lawyers in the state. Mine was 
just a babe as compared with him. And such a 
tale as the girl did tell. It was a revelation to 
me how anyone—especially one so young— 
could weave such a perjury. All I could an¬ 
swer was: ‘1 don’t know. I am innocent. * 


THE GAME 


145 


“Of course, I was convicted and sentenced. 
I thought that was awful, but there was some¬ 
thing still worse in store for me. 

“My wife had stood by me loyally. In my 
presence she had always been cheerful and hope¬ 
ful. She came to the jail to bid me good-bye. 
She smiled and said: ‘Good-bye, boy; we’ll 
be waiting for you—the little one and I.’ I 
watched her go away along the entrance walk. 
Just as she reached the sidewalk, I saw her fall. 
They carried her in, dead—dead from the shock 
and the strain. 

“I have read how similar tragedies have 
made men bitter; have driven them insane; 
have created a thirst for some one’s life; have 
sown the seed of revenge in their hearts. It 
was not so with me. As I looked at the lifeless 
form of my wife, a feeling I cannot explain 
took hold of me. It must have been the inspira¬ 
tion of her lovely life. I said to myself, it was 
better that way. She was saved the hard years 
of eking out an existence while I was away. 
She was free from the eyes which by their very 
gaze would call her a convict’s wife. It was 
best for the child-to-be, because it would never 
experience the shame and disgrace and loneli- 


146 


PLAYING 


ness which society awards to the child of a man 
stamped ‘ criminal,’ be he ever so innocent. 

“The iron gates closed behind me and I was 
a captive—a prisoner—the equal only of the 
murderer, the thief and the traitor. But I was 
a model prisoner, the records will show that. 
There was not a mark against me. I had had 
only a limited education, so I took an interest in 
the prison school. I was especially apt in the 
study of English. Pardon me for mentioning 
it, but as others have commented on it, perhaps 
you have made mental note of my use of the 
language. I acquired that while in prison. My 
shop experience did me a good turn, too, for in 
due time I was made a trusty and was placed 
in charge of the shop for repairing the prison’s 
automobiles, trucks and tractors. 

“One day the warden sent for me. He 
pointed to'a gentleman seated in his office, and 
informed me that the man was a friend of Iris, a 
manufacturer of one of the highest-priced cars 
on the market; that his car had ‘gone wrong’ 
about five miles out in the country. He asked 
me if he could trust me to go out with his friend, 
fix the car, and return, making no effort to 
escape. I replied that he could. 


THE GAME 


147 


“The warden’s friend was a pleasant man 
and a very talkative one. He conversed with 
me just as though there was no difference in our 
stations in the world. He asked me if I had 
been a college graduate or a school teacher, 
commenting on the correctness of my grammar. 
He evidenced great surprise when I told him 
where I had learned it. 

6 ‘ Some time after that the warden again sent 
for me. I found in his office the man whose car 
I had repaired. The warden informed me that 
his friend wanted me in his factory garage to 
keep the cars of the officials of the company in 
repair, and had asked that I be paroled to him, 
and that he had arranged it so. 

“The joy of being away from the prison was 
great, but I never forgot for one moment that I 
was not free—that I was only on parole. Be¬ 
yond the fact that I was outside and responsi¬ 
ble to my ‘next friend,’ I knew nothing of the 
details of a parole. My benefactor was pos¬ 
sessed of the same ignorance, and it got me into 
trouble again. 

“I fell in love with a woman rooming at the 
same place where I was living. Regardless of 
my prison life, she reciprocated my love. When 


148 


PLAYING 


I approached my guardian about getting mar¬ 
ried, he said he thought it was just the thing 
for me to do, and that he would promote me to 
a better job in one of the company’s branches 
in a Southern state. These plans were culmin¬ 
ated, and, established in our new environment, 
we looked forward to the day when my parole 
would be ended and I would indeed be free 
again. 

“The parole ended, but sooner than we ex¬ 
pected, and in an entirely different manner. I 
received a letter from my ‘next friend,* asking 
me to return to the factory at once. Arrived 
there, I found that my parole had been violated 
both by my marriage and my departure from 
the state. He explained that he had done all he 
could for me, but that neither his ignorance nor 
mine could be taken into account. I must re¬ 
turn to prison and finish my term. 

“My wife went with me to the city where the 
prison is located and stayed there during the re¬ 
mainder of my incarceration. In the meantime 
a little girl was born to us. 

‘ ‘ Six months ago that same automobile manu¬ 
facturer called my case to the attention of the 
Governor and I was pardoned. That was one 


THE GAME 


149 


of the last acts of my benefactor before he 
passed away quite suddenly. During these six 
months, I’ve had the usual lnck of an ex-convict. 
I’ve dug cellars when there were any to dig. 
I’ve worked on the streets, in shops—in short, 
I’ve done just anything that I could find to do. 
But these jobs have never lasted long. Em¬ 
ployers don’t want ‘prison birds’ in their estab¬ 
lishments, and employees won’t work alongside 
of them. That a man has been such always be¬ 
comes known, and I have considered it the only 
honest policy not to try to hide it. I have been 
spurned by rum-runners, gamblers, and those 
guilty of other crimes, but they have not been 
caught yet. 

“A month ago I answered an advertisement 
of a firm that enlarges pictures, wanting can¬ 
vassers. I went to work, walking miles, and 
have had very good success. Yesterday I re¬ 
ceived a double blow. My former ward came to 
see me, and, conscience stricken, confessed that 
she had wronged me. She begged for mercy. I 
now know who was the father of her child. I 
gave her my promise not to divulge his name. 
Prominence in business and church affairs does 
not always define a man’s private life, however. 


150 


PLAYING 


I also received a letter from the firm I am work- 
in for, stating that before they could extend 
me credit, I must give a bond, and that they 
had, therefore, shipped my order C. 0. D. It is 
now at the express office with one hundred and 
fifty dollars due on it. 

“ Today, I am afraid. I am afraid that I 
cannot keep my promise to her who caused me 
all my years of innocent suffering. I never 
thought to hate her or the man who was partner 
in her shame, while I was in prison. Since yes¬ 
terday, hate has been winding its hoops of steel 
about me. I am afraid that it will master me, 
that I will become subservient to it. 

“I am afraid that I am going to do something 
desperate. Never before have I ever thought 
of being guilty of theft or forgery. But my 
family is in want—food, fuel and clothes are 
needed, and seriously so. I must have that one 
one hundred and fifty dollars. It means one 
hundred dollars profit to me—a veritable for¬ 
tune. No one will loan me money, nor sign my 
bond nor help me in any way. My God! How 
terrible it is to be possessed by such a fear.” 

As he uttered this exclamation, he fell for¬ 
ward on my desk and sobbed like a child. 


THE GAME 


151 


I am not afraid nor ashamed of the man who 
cries. There’s hope for him and his ambitions. 
I was greatly stirred by his narrative, and I left 
him alone a few minutes with his sobbing and 
his fear. When he had composed himself and 
had straightened up in his chair, I said to him: 

‘‘1 am not going to preach you a sermon. I’m 
going to give you a plain business talk. Busi¬ 
ness is business. I do not care whether it is 
selling papers on the street or running a manu¬ 
facturing plant, or a bank, or a store. One is 
just as much a business as the other. There 
may be differences in the sizes and proportions 
of business, but the fundamental is the same. 

“You are a business man. It makes no dif¬ 
ference what your past has been, nor what your 
future is to be, you are today in business—the 
business of taking orders for the enlargement 
of pictures. It is an honest business. There is 
no dishonesty in asking folks to have pictures 
of themselves or their relatives done in crayon 
or otherwise, and in enlarged form. It is per¬ 
fectly honest to charge a fair price for this work, 
if the character of the work done is up to stand¬ 
ard, and meets the promises made. No honest 


152 


PLAYING 


business is unworthy, and all honest work is 
dignified. 

‘‘ The trouble with you is that you are held a 
prisoner by fear of the scarlet flames you see. 
You have a wrong conception of them. The 
same trouble affects other business men. 

‘ 4 The captain of a boat, the railroad engineer, 
and the driver of an automobile, would never 
arrive anywhere, if, every time they saw the 
danger signal ahead, they took their hands off 
of the wheel or the throttle and ‘let drift.’ No, 
indeed. They slow down, or stop, think, and 
then proceed with caution. Perhaps they have 
to detour. The main thing is, they think and 
proceed. The scarlet tongues of fire kindled by 
hatred should be looked upon by you as a warn¬ 
ing not to hate. Stop and think. If you are 
afraid of them, you will be paralyzed in your 
tracks, and they will subdue and conquer you. 
That would mean for you, at this time, a mur¬ 
der, perhaps two, and a prison term for life. 

“Now about your financial fear. That’s a 
very common one. Men of business see the red 
line ahead, and too often drift on toward it, 
wholly absorbed by the fear of it, and are seem¬ 
ingly unable to stop and think. This fear leads 


THE GAME 


153 


them to passive bankruptcy, or to a failure 
brought on by dishonesty. They misconstrue 
the scarlet of admonition and honor for that of 
mockery and derision, and become prisoners to 
the latter.’’ 

Just then, I noticed on my desk a bright red 
string, which had been wrapped around a pur¬ 
chase I had made. I picked it up and contin¬ 
ued: 

“Do you see this cord 1 A piece of cord saved 
the lives of two men, one time, on a very im¬ 
portant mission, and a line of scarlet thread, 
hung in a window, was a warning that a woman 
—of bad character at that—was to be allowed 
to live, she and her father’s household. It was 
a sign that, though she was in ill-repute, she 
was still capable of some good deeds. It was an 
emblem, guaranteeing protection to those within 
her house if they stopped and thought and went 
not out into the danger zone. It was a com¬ 
mand to those without, to stop, think, and pass 
by. It was just a scarlet thread.” 

I then asked him to hold out his right arm. I 
tied that scarlet string around his wrist. 

I bade him accompany me to the bank. At the 
first one we were unsuccessful. The cashier 


154 


PLAYING 


called me aside and admonished me to take no 
chances with a man who had been in prison. 
The second banker heard onr brief statement 
and readily agreed to loan the money, if I would 
sign as security. He, too, called me to one side, 
but talked much differently than the other 
banker had. He told me that he was glad of 
such an opportunity, and that if our man failed 
us and was playing us false, he himself would 
stand half the loss—all of it, if I said so. That 
banker is a man, big-hearted and big-souled. 
Convinced of a man’s need and worthiness, he 
never turns him away empty-handed. He 
spends his vacations quite frequently in the 
town over there, in a cottage near the Belve¬ 
dere. First and last we advanced our protege 
more than two thousand dollars. 

If you were in that town today, and should 
walk up the main street, you could hardly fail 
to see a large white sign, having across it at its 
center, a scarlet line. On each window is 
painted a scarlet line. If you should enter this 
store, you would find on the wall an old bat¬ 
tered frame. Underneath the glass at the top 
is the red cord I tied around his wrist, and be¬ 
low it these verses: 


TEE GAME 


155 


“When of going to market, you’re on the brink, 
Proceed with caution. Stop and think. 

Our sign is a warning and guarantee 
Of fearlessness and fidelity. 

For groceries that are fresh and fine, 

Enter at the sign of the scarlet line. ’ ’ 






PRANKS AND PRAYERS 




'HERE goes the winner in the boat races, 


A yesterday,” said Mr. Young, who was 
seated on the front porch of John Lambert’s 
cottage, feasting on the beauties of nature—the 
lake, the trees, and the hills beyond. 

“I recognize it,” replied John Lambert. 

“How did you know?” asked Mr. Young. 

“I was there.” 

44 Where ? ’ ’ 

44 At the races.” 

44 You don’t mean it?” 

44 I surely do,” declared John Lambert. 

44 I must admit that I am amazed,” rejoined 
Mr. Young. 

John Lambert looked out over the lake with 
thoughtful gaze, for a few moments, and then 
spoke quite earnestly: 

Amazed, are you? That is a very compre¬ 
hensive word. It takes in bewilderment, per¬ 
plexity, wonder, confusion, awe and surprise— 
and something else, too. None of the synonyms 
named are applicable, in my opinion, but ad¬ 
miration would be. You should admire me for 


160 


PLAYING 


having had the courage to see those races. I 
think, though, that you consider me heterodox. 
If you do, you are unjust to me, but such in¬ 
justice is not uncommon. Society is so discrim¬ 
inative—amazingly so. 

No doubt there are others who, if they saw 
me there, were shocked and disgusted, and still 
others who, if they have heard of my attend¬ 
ance, have exclaimed, just as you did, that they 
were amazed. 

It was, no doubt, perfectly proper for the 
banker, who is also a vestryman, or the mer¬ 
chant, who is also a church deacon, to witness 
that race. But how shameful and brazen for a 
minister—and an old superannuated one at that. 

I know what society argues. It claims that 
races—whether of boats or horses or automo¬ 
biles, or of any other contenders—are places 
for gambling, and that surely no minister can 
afford to put his stamp of approval on that. 
Of course, he cannot, and he doesn’t. These 
same shock-absorbers bet on high school athletic 
championship contests, and welcome the pres¬ 
ence of the clergy at these. They wager on 
this one or that one to win an oratorical con¬ 
test in college. If the minister should refuse 


THE GAME 


161 


to attend, or to pronounce the invocation, they 
would brand him as a narrow old fogy. 

But they say that is different. Contests are 
more dignified; that a different class of peo¬ 
ple attends contests—so very different from 
that class found at races. My observation has 
been that the majority of the folks I see at the 
former, are also at the latter. Races attract a 
more motley crowd, to be sure—but no differ¬ 
ent from that with which one mingles on the 
street. Suppose, as sometimes happens, one 
of the populace wanders into church. Is he 
thrown out! Quite the contrary attitude is ex¬ 
hibited, except on the part of a few harmless, 
ignorant snobs. What, then, is the sense of be¬ 
littling him at a ball game or a horse race! 

The trouble is that society, thinking it is ex¬ 
ercising great discrimination, is in fact making 
a hotch-potch of the whole matter. It is selfish 
—trying to get something for nothing. It cries 
for an elite condition and denies the elixir to 
obtain it. It decries any attempt to produce 
such a condition and impugns the motives, as it 
interprets them, of anyone making such an 
attempt. 


162 


PLAYING 


It fails to recognize that fundamental truth 
that a boat cannot participate in a race unless 
its parts are properly designed, assembled and 
co-ordinated, which makes such a race a source 
for scientific enlightenment. It does not discern 
that a horse cannot be trained to trot, if it is 
kept tied in the barn all the time. It logically 
follows, that evil conditions cannot be improved 
by staying away from them, by leaving them 
alone. In the days of the saloon, no saloonist 
would have welcomed the constant presence, in 
his place of business, of a preacher. One of two 
things would have happened. Either the 
preacher would have been told to stay out, and 
measures taken to see that he did, or the saloon¬ 
ist would have gone out of business. I saw this 
scheme tried on a dive called a, pool-hall which 
existed only because of the patronage of high 
school boys. It went out of business very 
quickly. 

Two very important things are overlooked: 
the inspiration of a deed; and the purpose for 
which it is performed. I was inspired to go to 
the races yesterday because I had never seen 
any of that kind, and could see no harm in wit¬ 
nessing such a scientific demonstration. My 


TEE GAME 


163 


purpose was to obtain what I believed would be 
a wholesome pleasure and an educational profit. 
I did not go there to gamble, nor to encourage 
it. As a man “thinketh in his heart, so is he.” 
This holds true for the good as well as for the 
bad. 

I have no idea that any more money was wa¬ 
gered because I was there, than would have been 
had I been absent. I do know that near me sat 
some men who started to place some money on 
that winning boat out yonder, but refrained 
when they discovered my presence. Yes, in¬ 
deed, society is very discriminative—amazingly 
selfishly, inconsistently discriminative. 

I do not know of anything upon which there 
is not at some time some gambling—some wager 
offered and taken. In my early days I was long 
on the “thou shalt not.” I tried to raise my 
two sons by the negative process. Among other 
things, I forbade them to play baseball. One 
afternoon when they came home, I asked them 
where they had been. When they told me that 
they had been participants in a ball game, I 
reprimanded them quite severely. 

“Why don’t you want us to play?” asked 
one of them. 


164 


PLAYING 


6 ‘ Because there is gambling on it, ? ? I replied. 

“Then you will have to quit praying,’’ ob¬ 
served the older one. 

“How is that?” I inquired. 

“I heard two men talking down town a few 
days ago. They were talking about you. One 
man offered to bet the other fifty dollars that 
you could pray longer than any man they had 
ever heard. The second man took the bet, be¬ 
cause he had heard a fifteen-minute prayer once 
as compared to one of twelve minutes for the 
other. They tried you out the following Sun¬ 
day. In the morning you prayed eighteen min¬ 
utes, and at night you kept the audience on its 
knees for twenty-two minutes.” 

The boys were right. 

If you were amazed a while ago, you will be 
doubly so now when I tell you that once I owned 
a race-horse. I didn’t buy him for such, but he 
turned to be one nevertheless. I have always 
loved a horse, and have never been without one. 
Others may have their automobiles, but I cling 
to the horse. Motor-driven vehicles have 
greater speed and larger power—but they can 
never supply that near-human attribute which 


THE GAME 


165 


a horse possesses. I may have been modern¬ 
ized in some ways, but not in this. 

A black horse has, in my mind, always been 
associated with a pair of balances—suggesting 
the propriety of weighing every action, thought 
and word very carefully. A white horse has al¬ 
ways symbolized, to me, a conqueror. 

This race-horse of mine was black and white 
—with black very much in predominance. I 
bought him when he was young, and he was my 
faithful servant for many years. I soon found 
out that he could step along some, and others 
noticed it, too. This resulted in quite an inter¬ 
esting episode. 

One Sunday, I announced that at my next 
appearance there I would take the annual col¬ 
lection for foreign missions. This church had 
never subscribed its quota, and I urged that it 
should provide its share. The appointed Sun¬ 
day morning arrived, but the collection didn’t. 
It was short a lot of dollars. I was somewhat 
peeved, and let my audience know it. I in¬ 
formed them that at the night service, another 
opportunity would be given to make up the de¬ 
ficit. I called upon them to spend much time 
in prayer over the question that afternoon. 


166 


PLAYING 


That night, I prayed—I don’t know how long 
—I just prayed. I pleaded for the softening of 
hard-hearted men; that a finer spirit of char¬ 
ity might he shown for the heathen; that self¬ 
ishness might be broken down; that purse 
strings might be loosened; that men should 
run a good race and fight a good fight in order 
that those in benighted lands might have the 
greater light of Christianity and wage a sue 
cessful battle against the enemy of ignorance 
and doubt. 

My prayer was answered. While I was pray¬ 
ing, a prank was being staged on the outside 
of the church, all unbeknown to us on the inside. 

The collection plates were passed and were 
brought back, with scarcely anything in them. 
I looked down at them for a few moments, won¬ 
dering, much in doubt as to what to do or say, 
when I heard a commotion. I looked up, and 
beheld, coming down the center aisle an old 
Southern negro—the one who always cared for 
my horse when I stopped at the home where he 
worked. He came slowly, evidently ill at ease— 
uncertain as to just what would be the outcome. 
When he was right in front of the altar railing, 


THE GAME 


167 


he stopped, looked up at me for a second, and 
then asked: 

“Marse Lambert, can I speak in white folks’ 
meetin’ f ’ ’ 

“Certainly, Mose,” I assured him. 

“Marse Lambert, ’scuse me for saying it, as 
perhaps I hadn’t oughta, but yo’-all don’t know 
how to take up a collection for dem heathen 
Chinee. White folks and black folks am not 
’like in many ways and in some ways they is 
jest ’like. It makes no diffrumce ’bout the 
color, a man what is got money likes to show it. 
Yo’-all ain’t give them white folks the right 
chance to prank around with their money. Yo’- 
all been tryin ’ to raise this money on the secret 
service reg’lations. It won’t work wid dese 
folks, no suh. Do yo’-all ’spose Marse Tom 
over here goin’ to loosen up much, when he sees 
Marse John put a shut-tight fist out over the 
cash-box and open up his fingers jes’ nutf for a 
dime or a nickel to slip out? Look at it ’nuther 
way. Marse John ain’t goin’ set there deef and 
dumb like, when he hears Marse Tom’s name 
’nounced out for twenty-five dollars. No, suh 
Marse John jes’ natchurly goin’ cash in for 
twenty-five fifty any how. I knows, ’cause both 


168 


PLAYING 


of ’em want to be ’lected Justice of the Peace 
at the next ’lection. ’Spose Miss Sally goin’ 
let Mrs. Julie outgive her? No such thing goin’ 
to happen, ’cause both of ’em ’deavorin’ to cap’- 
tulate a certain lonesome pusson with oodles 
of money. 

11 How much you lack, Marse Lambert, of hav- 
in’ nutf for them heathen?” 

“ About fifty dollars, Mose.” 

“How much back pay for las’ year, Marse 
Lambert?” 

“Something like sixty dollars.” 

“De year.befo’ that?” 

“In the neighborhood of ninety dollars.” 

“I ain’t no good at figgers. How much do 
fifty dollars, and sixty dollars and ninety dol¬ 
lars make, Marse Lambert?” 

“Two hundred dollars.” 

“How ’bout the intrust?” 

“What do you mean, Mose?” 

“I means jes’ what the big man at the bank 
means. He c’lects perjury money for letting 
folks have some money to buy seeds with and 
which they spend it for something else. Let’s 
call the intrust in this ’saction in which 
the Lord’s money done been used for tempor- 


THE GAME 


169 


ious pu’poses for two and three years, fifty dol¬ 
lars. Is that nuff, Marse Lambert ?” 

“Yes, plenty, if yon can get it.” 

“I gets it, all right; don’t worry. Now yo’- 
all needs teetotally two hundred dollars and fifty 
dollars. That’s a whole lot of money, but it 
jes’ takes that much to put this church square 
with the prophets, the disciples, the Father, the 
Son, and the Holy Ghost. And I’m thinkin’ 
some unholy ghost goin’ to get these white folks, 
if they don’t plank down. 

“Nuther thing; I ain’t much for a barrel of 
talking and a gill of doing. I donates towards 
and in behalfs of this two hundred and fifty dol¬ 
lars, one hundred dollars in behalf of the club.” 

He turned around and laid twenty five-dollar 
gold pieces in a row on the table. 

“Furdermo’, I donates pussonly for myself, 
ten dollars.” 

He turned to the table again and placed on it 
twenty quarters and an improvised bag, made 
out of a half of a red bandanna, and tied with 
a string. 

“How much that make, Marse Lambert, 
countin’ the five dollar bag?” 

“One hundred and ten dollars,” I told him. 


170 


PLAYING 


“That’s jes’ what the club made it. How 
much still due on that two hundred and fifty 
dollars?” 

‘ ‘ One hundred and forty dollars. ’ ’ 

“Now, I’se done. Yo’-all jes’ get these white 
folks to prank up here and plank down on this 
table—grow a crop right ’long side this seed. 
Call their names right out loud, and the size of 
each man’s and each woman’s harvest. If 
there’s one cent less than that one hundred and 
forty dollars, when yo’-all gets done, me and 
the club goin’ take back our one hundred and 
ten dollars and ’sport a mission’ry our own 
seifs. And Marse Lambert, if any of these 
folks here ain’t got nutf ready cash with ’em, 
jes’ let ’em use a piece of paper and make some 
of them promiscuous notes, like what they trade 
in at the bank. ’ ’ 

He turned to go, but I stopped him and 
asked: 

“Mose, what did you mean by ‘the club’?” 

‘ ‘ Can’t tell that in church, Marse Lambert, ’ ’ 
he replied, and went quickly down the aisle and 
out the door. 

There was an awful silence. Then Mose’s 
voice came softly, in song, through the door: 


THE GAME 


171 


“Lord loves the whites, 

He loves the blacks, 

The Chinee and the Africites, 

But he hates a stingy quack. 

Oh, Lordy; oh, Lordy. 

Got a-send a mission’ry. 

‘ 1 Shower down ’em dollars, 

Save the heathen Chinee. 

Shell out ’em dollars, 

Got a-send a mission’ry. 

Oh, Lordy; oh, Lordy. 

Got a-send a mission’ry.” 

After we had counted the money, which rep¬ 
resented considerably more than we needed, and 
pronounced the benediction, I hurried out to find 
Mose. There he stood, looking up at the moon. 
As I came up, he said: 

“I wished we could tie that money to the 
moon. The heathen would done have it to¬ 
morrow. ’ ’ 

“I’ll see that it gets to them, all right, Mose. 
Now tell me where you got that one hundred 
and ten dollars and what this club is.” 

“ Yo’-all goin’ spend the night at our house?” 
he asked. 


172 


PLAYING 


‘ 4 Yes/’ I answered. 

“ You and Marse Boss meet me at the spring. 
I feels jes' like I ought to tell you and I must 
tell Marse Boss, to save his boys from a cussin\ 
If I don't 'splain to him, he might not unner- 
stand.” 

My host and I found him waiting at the 
spring, humming to himself. 

“Now, Mose, tell us how you got that money,” 
I suggested. 

“Well, befo' I tells the how of it, I want yo'- 
all to 'scriminate. I means I want you to get 
it into yore thinkin' that sometimes folks does 
things what don't look jes' right—mebbe don't 
sound jes' right—but ain't wrong 'cause they 
was 'riginated by the right spirit and 'spira- 
tion, and the purpose was righter than that. If 
I makes that plain and luminous, you can un- 
nerstand what I'se 'bout to tell. 

“Well, Marse Boss, them two young scala¬ 
wags of ourn come home from meetin' this 
morning, powerful meditative. I hear 'em 
talkin' at the barn. They was callatin' how 
Marse Lambert goin' get all that money he 
wanted for the heathen. They talk and act like 
they want to help somehow, but they don't seem 


THE GAME 


173 


able to see no ways they could. I feel power¬ 
ful sorry for ’em, they seem so seriousful like. 
So I jes’ wandered down here to the spring to 
think. I always come here to think, ’cause it 
seems so natchural like for an answer to spring 
up at a spring. 

“ Well, I muse and think, and meditation quite 
a spell, and sho’ nuff the old spring don’t fail 
me. I gits the answer. 

“ Pretty soon I see those two youngsters 
roaming ’round the yard. I whistles to ’em and 
motions with my hand, and they hear and see 
me and come down here. 

“How you goin’ help lift that heathen 
money!” I ask ’em. 

.“We don’t know, Mose. What can you sug¬ 
gest?” they says. 

“I got a plan,” I says. 

“What is it?” they ast. 

“The Gold-V Club,” I says. 

“You see, the boys in this neighborhood done 
organize a secret club, of which I am the mascot. 
To qualify in this club, each member, ’cept the 
mascot, got to have a five-dollar gold piece all 
his’n in his jeans. When a boy can save up 
five dollars and change it for a five-dollar gold 


174 


PLAYING 


piece, he is considered four hundred quality 
folks, and can get Vitiated. It’s some show of 
’portance to sit around and talk to the girls, 
playin’ with a yellow fiver. 

‘ ‘ What can the club do ?’ ’ they wants to know. 

“Got twenty members, ain’t yo’f ” 

“Yes.” 

“Each got afive-dollar gold piece, ain’t he?” 

“Yes, but that would break up the club.” 

“Which am better,” I ast, “to save yore club, 
or save some heathen?” 

“The heathen, we guess,” they ’sponds. 

‘ ‘ ’Sides, can’t you revibrate yore club ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, we could reorganize it, sometime, but 
that would be only one hundred dollars.” 

‘ ‘ One hundred dollars goin ’ buy a lot of light 
for the darkness of heathendom.” 

“I let them think a few minutes, and then I 
says: ‘Maybe you won’t lose it.’ ” 

“What’s your plan, anyway, Mose. Don’t 
be so mysterious. ’ ’ 

“Well,” I says, “there’s Hop and Phin and 
Blackie. You see, Marse Lambert, Hop and 
Phin is short for Hophni and Phinehas. Them’s 
the names I done give the boys’ horses. Hop 


TIIE GAME 


175 


is sure the most pugilistic horse I ever see, and 
Phin is jes’ such a brazen critter that I sho’ 
’spect him to turn to a hunk of brass some of 
these days. Of course, yo ’-all know who Blackie 
is. I had in mind all the time that Hop is some 
stepper, that Phin is nearly as good, and I know 
yore Blackie sho’ got some wings on his feet.” 

“What have the horses got to do with it?” the 
boys asked. 

“Well,” I started on kind-a hesitatin’ like, 
“I know yore paw and Marse Lambert would 
not be very favorable like to a horse race, but 
that is because they wouldn ’t know the why yo ’ 
done it. Lots of folks get blasphemed for doin’ 
something when the blasphemers don’t unner- 
stand what told ’em to do it. Course, I would 
not want yo ’ to bet on a horse race to put money 
in yo’ own pockets, but when it’s for the poor, 
ignorant heathens, I can’t see no sin in it.” 

4 ‘ They thought it over a while and then asked 
how to fix it. ” 

“ Jes ’easy and lucid like this,” I says. “One 
of you right off get word to half the members 
of the club, and the other to the other half. 
Don’t none of you go into the meetin’ early. 
After Marse Lambert gits goin’, I’ll happen 


176 


PLAYING 


’long with a saddle and bridle. We’ll put Hop 
against Blackie—Hop for the club and Blackie 
for the mission ’ries. If Hop wins, yo ’-all keep 
yore money and yore club stays intrack. If 
Blackie wins, yore club gives its one hundred 
dollars to the mission’ry cause and you reor- 
ganate your club. To show I’m game, as the 
mascot of yore club, I got ten dollars—and 
that’s all I got—and I’ll put it in if Blackie 
wins. Yo’-all can slip into the church one at a 
time, and when the hat’s passed yo’ can drop 
yore five-dollar gold pieces in it, and one of yo ’ 
can let fall my ten dollars, too. 

“Well, the plans all worked out according to 
how they was ’ranged up to the time of the race. 
Then it ’curred to us as how no one had been 
’cided on to ride Backie. Nobody seemed han¬ 
kerin’ after the job, so I took it. While you 
was praying, Marse Lambert, we slipped quiet 
and calm-like down to the level stretch by the 
bridge. You know the rest. Poor old Hop 
didn’t get much dust in his face ’cause Blackie 
didn’t kick up any near where he was, ’cept for 
a second or two. ’ ’ 

“How did you happen to bring the money 
in?” I asked him. 


THE GAME 


177 


“I done forgot ’bout that. You see, after 
Blackie done beat Hop, the boys felt kind-a bad 
’bout their club, and began to feel they had 
played truant from church, and they was jes’ 
too ’fraid to slip in as had done been ’cided. 
Some of ’em began to spec’late on what would 
be coming to ’em when their folks found out 
they had been cuttin’ up so, so I jes’ up and 
says that old Mose will take that money in and 
give it to Marse Lambert. And that’s how 
come I come in. I never had no ’tenshun of 
speechifying, but as I ambled down that aisle, 
something kep’ whisperin’ to me that I’d have 
to make some specification, that no fool nigger 
goin’ to walk right in white folks’ meetin’ and 
lay all that money on the table and turn ’round 
and walk right out silent like, not havin’ said 
nothin’. Then when I got started, the spirit 
jes’ moved me—that’s all—jes’ moved me.” 

He started away and then turned back. 

“Marse Boss,” he said, “yo’-all ain’t goin’ 
punish our boys, is yo’f ’Twarnt they-alls 
fault; it was old Mose’s. Punish him, if you 
got to ’flict anybody.” 

Again he started to depart, and came back. 

‘‘Marse Boss,” he asked, “how we goin’ 


178 


PLAYING THE GAME 


chase chastisin’ ’way from the other members 
of the club, what dies for the heathens?” 

Did I keep the money for the missionary col¬ 
lection which my horse had won? I certainly 
did. Some of the members were for counting 
it out, but I would not hear to it. I had ceased 
to believe in that kind of discrimination. Since 
then I hav^ always been sure that I understood 
a person’s inspiration and motive before con¬ 
demning and criticising him. 

Forever after in that community, my horse 
and I were known as “Pranks and Prayers.” 


THE REPENTANCE OF SHEP 


i 








“LTOW’S the leg, old fellow?” Thus spoke 
A Bob Coldwell as he came into the living 
room. 

Shep, who was lying by the fireplace, tried 
to get up, but sank back with a cry of pain. 

“Of course, it hurts. You must stay off of it 
so that it can get well as soon as possible/’ said 
Bob as he caressed his faithful dog. 

“I did the best I could/’ Bob interpreted 
the look in Shep’s eyes. “I would have pulled 
her out if the car hadn’t tipped over so soon.” 

4 ‘ Of course. I saw it all from the field. The 
car skidded and turned on its side. You jumped 
and got hold of Nettie’s dress. If it had not 
gone over you would both have escaped being 
hurt very much. ’ ’ 

“Where is Nettie?” was the question Bob 
read in the roving look, cocked ears, and whine 
of the dog. 

“She is upstairs. She’s resting quietly now. 
The doctor says she will get well, if she is not 
hurt internally. That may have happened to 
her when the car finished its somersault and 
caught your leg, breaking it. ’ ’ 


182 


PLAYING 


They both gazed silently at the fire. 

“You are a good dog, Shep,” said Bob, pat¬ 
ting him on the head. 

“I’ve tried to be,” wagged Shep with his 
tail. “I’ve tried to live up to the reputation 
good shepherds have always had. I’m proud 
to be that kind of a dog. I’ve never seen any 
other dog I would rather be.” 

“It is a fine feeling to be so contented and 
happy and have such a good home, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” agreed Shep with three licks 
with his tongue on Bob’s hand. “This is a fine 
place here on the farm. I feel very sorry for 
the dogs that have to live in town. They 
haven’t the woods to play in, nor the river to 
swim in. They miss the smell of the clover, the 
perfumes of the wild flowers, and have to 
breathe such stuffy, smoky air. ’ ’ 

“You’ve done a lot for us—Nettie and me — 
and suffered a lot too.” 

“Don’t mention it,” yawned Shep. “I’ve 
done no more than my duty.” 

“Well, I will mention it, too. Just think of 
it. You’re blind in one eye.” 

“Oh, that’s all right.” He rested his head 
on his paw, and gazed thoughtfully at the 


THE GAME 


183 


flames. 6 4 Of course it’s inconvenient. It 
would be nicer to still have two good eyes like 
other dogs. But what was I to do that night, 
when Nettie and I were here all alone? Run 
under the back porch or down to the barn, and 
let that man rob the house, and maybe kill 
Nettie? She was mighty brave that night. 
It’s too bad her gun was not loaded. I kept 
watching the pistol the man had and aidn’t see 
the knife he had in his other hand, that he 
stuck in my eye when I lunged at him. I’m 
glad he didn’t shoot me. I would much rather 
be living with only one eye than to be a dead 
dog. I got a good bite on his leg, tore his 
trousers, and scared him away, so what’s the 
difference?” 

1 ‘ How about the time the bull kicked you and 
broke your rib?” 

Shep looked up at his master, and then turned 
his head away. 

“I bit him jus a t in time to keep him from 
knocking Nettie down and trampling her to 
death, didn’t I?” 

“What if she dies now? What will we do?” 
sobbed 'Bob. 

“Don’t cry, Bob.” He nestled his head on 


184 


PLAYING 


Bob’s foot. “Let ns hope for her to get well. 
If she don’t, I think I’ll never ride in a car 
again. I have always enjoyed being in the 
fields, or the woods, or down at the barn with 
you. But it has always been more fun to sit on 
the seat beside you as you drive your car whiz¬ 
zing down the road. I have liked to ride beside 
Nettie, too, since she came here to live, and 
when you both go, I am just as happy to ride on 
the back seat or on the running board . 9 ’ 

“Nettie is still unconscious,” Bob said as 
he returned to the room. “Both the doctor and 
the nurse have hopes for her recovery, but she 
must be kept very quiet. Why, what are you 
looking at, Shep? That old collar of yours 
hanging on the wall?” 

“Yes,” barked Shep very softly. “I re¬ 
member when you took me to town and bought 
it for me. I was the happiest and proudest dog 
you ever saw. Nettie was so pleased about it 
too—especially that little leather pocket-book 
on the inside of it. It was a joy to feel it there 
under my throat, concealed by my long hair, as 
I went back and forth, down the road to the 
river, along its bank, up the hill, past the 
church, and across the wood pasture, carrying 


THE GAME 


185 


messages for you and Nettie. Some of hers 
had an awful sweet scent to them.” 

‘‘The doctor says she may lose her voice and 
never be able to sing again,” said Bob, as he 
came back after having stood by the piano a 
minute. 

44 That would be awful.” Shep, put his nose 
between his paws and closed his eyes. “But 
it will be better to have her that way than not 
to have her at all. When you used to take me 
inside the church at choir practice and as I lay 
in the aisle and heard her voice, so clear and 
strong, I thought the birds were singing their 
sweetest songs. It seems to have become 
sweeter since she has lived with us.” 

“Tomorrow will be the first Sunday, for a 
long time, that she has missed singing at church. 
I must get word to the preacher.” 

Shep gave a low growl. 

“What's the matter? I thought you liked 
the preacher,” Bob remarked, as he sat down 
beside his pet, and let him pillow his head on his 
knee. 

“I do now, but I didn't that Sunday he treat¬ 
ed me so badly and somehow I always think of 


186 


PLAYING 


that first when I think of him. We were over 
at Nettie’s house. I sniffed his shoe. He 
kicked at me and said very crossly 4 Gret away. ’ 
I didn’t know why he treated me that way. I 
wasn’t going to hurt him. I wanted to be 
friendly. You told him so, but he said that he 
had no love for dogs; that he never chose a 
text that had any mention of them; that they 
made him think of gossipers, tale-bearers and 
liars—always roaming around and wagging 
their tongues. That made you pretty mad. 
You called me over to you and put your arm 
around my neck and told him a lot of good 
things about dogs. You reminded him of the 
good texts about them; that you knew of no 
animal that better exhibited faithfulness, watch- 
care and comfort in time of need, suffering and 
distress; that, unlike lots of human beings, the 
dog was unselfish and demanded no preferment 
because of his service.” 

‘‘I remember it quite well, friend of mine, 
for that was the day Nettie and I had the only 
quarrel we ever had. It nearly drove me 
crazy. ’’ 

“I knew it, Bob. I heard you and Nettie 
fussing on the porch. Then she went in the 


TEE GAME 


187 


house crying, and you called me and we started 
home. That was the only time I was ever 
scared, riding with you. You drove like a 
crazy man. I tremble yet when I go by that 
tree you so narrowly missed, and cross the 
bridge you almost ran off of. You might have 
killed us both, and cut off all the happy times 
we have had since.” 

Shep moved uneasily. 

“Does it pain, old boy?” 

“Yes,” he whined. “I know how you suf¬ 
fered that same Sunday evening when you broke 
your leg. You went down to the bam to feed 
and milk, and I drove up the cows and then 
went to look after a bone I had buried. When 
I came back I heard a strange voice. It didn’t 
sound like yours. I listened a minute and then 
ran into the barn. I found you on the floor in 
a heap just under that big hole in the hay-loft. 
I knew you were hurt awful bad by the way 
you groaned. I didn’t know what to do, and 
there was no one else at home. I thought you 
would never open your eyes. I barked and 
licked your hands and face. After a long time 
you looked at me, and, by holding on to me, 


188 


PLAYING 


raised yourself up a little and rested your 
back against a post. It was a very painful 
task—getting that piece of paper and the pencil 
out of your pocket and writing that note. It 
was more so, getting the note in the little 
pocket-book. I helped you all I could by stand¬ 
ing just as still as my desire to be gone would 
let me, because I knew just where that note 
was to go.” 

“That’s right, Shep. Every little detail 
comes back to us tonight, don’t they! You 
showed what a faithful and intelligent dog you 
are. You didn’t wait for me to tell you where 
to go. You bounded right off, with a bark, to 
Nettie’s house.” 

For a few moments both were lost in thought. 
Bob broke the silence: 

“You were gone such a long time. The 
pain was terrible. I would lose myself and 
dream such horrid things about Nettie and you 
and then I would ‘come to’ and be so disap¬ 
pointed that you hadn’t come back, bringing 
Nettie with you.” 

“That was the most terrible night of my 
life, Bob, next to tonight.” He nestled closer 
to his Master. “Everything seemed against 


THE GAME 


189 


me. I couldn’t run fast enough. The road was 
never so long. I paused only once—at the 
church. It was all lighted just like it was for 
choir practice. Some folks were going in. 
One of them was the preacher, so I hurried 
on. I’ve always been sorry I didn’t go in, too.” 

‘‘The preacher told me he saw you. I under¬ 
stand it all. You couldn’t feel that Nettie was 
there without me because you had always seen 
us there together.” 

“There’s one time I was wrong, though, Bob. 
Nettie’s house was all dark. I barked and 
scratched on all the doors, but nobody came. 
There was nothing to do but start back home. 
When I got back to the church something told 
me I just must look inside. I tried to push the 
door open, but couldn’t. Then a man went in 
and I slipped through. He tried to stop me, but 
I was too quick for him. I went down to the 
organ, but Nettie wasn’t there, and I couldn’t 
see her anywhere. There were lots of people 
there, but I am sure I would have found her 
if they had let me alone. I didn’t bark, or 
even whine, because you had told me I must 
be quiet in the church. When the preacher saw 
me, he said the church was no place for a dog 


190 


PLAYING 


and had one of the men put me out. If it 
hadn’t been in church, I am sure I would have 
barked and growled and possibly have snapped 
at the man. My heart was nearly broken. I 
went over to the other door and found a little 
crack. I pushed it open and slipped in, and 
lay down just inside, to wait, for I was now 
sure that Nettie must be there. A little girl 
reached down and patted me, but I didn’t even 
wag my tail in response because I felt so bad 
about you. It just seemed the preacher would 
never stop talking. After a while they com¬ 
menced singing, but I didn’t hear Nettie’s 
voice. I thought maybe she wasn’t there, after 
all. The preacher kept talking while the folks 
were singing but I couldn’t hear all he said. 
Two or three times I caught the words ‘come,’ 
and ‘shepherd’. I wondered if he was call¬ 
ing me. Perhaps he might help me, after all. 
I walked up and sat down right in front of 
him. When he saw me, I knew I had made an¬ 
other mistake. I could tell by the look in his 
eyes that he was angry. The singing stopped 
and he raised his hand. I thought he was go¬ 
ing to hit me. But I didn’t care. I shut my 
eyes and bowed my head for the blow and 


THE GAME 


191 


crouched down. The next thing I knew the 
people were walking around and Nettie was 
beside me, opening the little pocket-book. We 
hurried over here. I ran toward the barn, 
barking. ’’ 

"“Your bark was never as welcome, nor as 
joyous as it was that night.’’ 

Shep sighed and licked the bandage on his 
leg. 

“Don’t do that, Shep. The veterinary has 
done a good job there and you must he still. 
It’ll soon he well.” 

“That’s just the way Nettie talked to you 
that night, Boh. I didn’t sleep much. 1 
dozed off sometimes, hut when I roused up 1 
always saw her sitting hy your bed. When 
you were restless, she talked softly to you. 
She cried some too, when you seemed to be 
sleeping.” 

“But none of us cried the next day, did we?” 

“That was a happy day. I will never for¬ 
get the delighted look in your eyes as Nettie 
stood by your bed, with her hand in yours, while 
the preacher married you. I’ve heard her tell 
you many times how happy you looked, and 
how delighted she was.” 


192 


PLAYING THE GAME 


“I remember something about you, too, 
Shep. You growled when the preacher started 
toward you and kept your eye right on him. 
In your eyes was the question, ‘What’s he go¬ 
ing to do to me now?’ You are a forgiving 
dog. When he patted you and said: ‘For¬ 
give me. You are a good dog, and I know you 
are going to be a better one, if that is possible, 
because you were the only repenter I had last 
night,’ you wagged your tail very emphatic¬ 
ally.” 

Shep looked inquiringly toward the door. 

“What is it, Shep? Oh, the nurse. 

She says Nettie will live; that she is conscious 
and wants to see us.” 

“Hurrah,” barked Shep, and vigorously 
thumped the hearth with his tail. 



A WOMAN PROMOTER 













^JLAEONDON SAMPSON—promoter—came 
for a vacation and remained for a promo¬ 
tion. He departed a little sooner than he had 
intended, however, due to Mary Ann Loveman 
clearing her decks and going into action. 

For several days “Claro Samp”—the nick¬ 
name given to Sampson by his friends because 
of his diminutive stature and the cigars he 
smoked—did nothing but rest and play. He 
kept to himself, even refusing to eat at the 
same table with any one else. 

He was very much annoyed, when he entered 
the dining room one evening, to discover that 
a special table had been placed quite near the 
one he was accustomed to occupy, and that a 
number of men were seated at it. It was im¬ 
possible for him not to hear their conversation. 
He gathered that they were all local residents, 
except one, who was evidently the guest of 
honor. From the conversation, lie concluded 
that the visitor was an expert on civic affairs 
—a sort of community doctor. 

“What this old town needs is a factory,” 
said one of the men. 


196 PLAYING 

4 ‘Yes, but wlio will promote it?” inquired one 
of the others. 

Clarondon Sampson’s vacation was over. 
That word “promote” was the call for him to 
get busy. Up to this time he had passively ac¬ 
cepted what he chanced to hear. From now 
on he was actively occupied in listening. 

“You have no factories?” asked the expert. 

“Not one. The old sugar factory was the 
only one we ever had, and it was a failure . 9 9 

“Why? ” asked the visitor. 

‘ ‘ Too little capital, not enough acres planted, 
a succession of poor crops, and inexperienced 
management,” was the answer. 

“Was this locality ever tested for beets?” 

“Yes. It was highly successful.” 

“Were the farmers interested?” 

‘ ‘ They were very enthusiastic. It was really 
their idea, but they were unversed in approved 
methods of growing beets.” 

“It seems to me that all these difficulties 
could now be overcome, if the farmers could 
be interested again, and the proper instruction 
and supervision provided.” 

“All but one—the capital.” This from one 
of the group who was evidently a banker—a 


THE GAME 


197 


very conservative one. “It would hardly be 
fair to us here in town, and much less to the 
farmers, under present conditions. ’’ 

This statement was followed by a lull, broken 
presently by one who had not, so far, said a 
word. He remarked: 

“This talk reminds me of the picture of the 
small boy with stick in hand, gazing wistfully 
at some birds in flight. Below it were these 
words: 

Ok, that I was where I would be; 

Then would I be where I am not; 

But where I am I must be; 

And where I would be I cannot. 

A pretty fair description, I think, of the at¬ 
titude of some folks toward improvements; 
always wishing for them, never active in get¬ 
ting them, and always carrying a club. To my 
mind, there is a more important reason for the 
failure of that factory, which will have to be 
overcome if any new project is started. There 
is no cooperation in this town, and less between 
the town and the county. It would not sur¬ 
prise me if the farmers would have to teach 
us town-ites how it’s done.” 

This precipitated an argument, and conse- 


198 


PLAYING 


quently the dinner ended with nothing definite 
having been started—except a train of thought 
in the mind of Claro Samp. 

That night he formulated his plan, and the 
next morning got busy with a vim. His scheme 
was a daring one and demanded quick action. 

He ordered a flivver to be delivered in twenty- 
four hours. 

He inspected, from the outside, the old sugar 
factory building and noted with satisfaction 
that the machinery was still in place. 

He spent several hours at the public library 
reading up on the beet and sugar industry. 

He managed to get a look at the records at 
the Court House and copied therefrom the 
names of a number of substantial farmers, re¬ 
siding in different parts of the county. 

The following day he started his drive. 

Claro Samp was, himself, really surprised 
at the favorable reception he received, of which 
the following is typical: 

“How would you like to see the sugar factory 
reorganized and running V 9 he asked the 
farmer. 

“That is just what we farmers need and 
want,” was the response. 


THE GAME 


199 


“How would you like to get in on the re¬ 
organization V ’ 

“That, of course, would depend upon the 
plan. What is it?” 

“A cooperative company, all the stockhold¬ 
ers being farmers, with the exception of the 
interests I represent, which would take their 
proper share. The control, however, would 
be in the hands of the farmers of this county.” 

“That sounds good, so far,” the farmer re¬ 
plied. 

“It has occurred to me,” continued Samp¬ 
son, “that it would be a great stroke of busi¬ 
ness if the farmers could quietly do this thing 
without the town folks knowing anything 
about it until it was all done.” 

“That would be fine,” replied the farmer, 
“but I don’t believe it could be done.” 

“I don’t see why. Farmers are just as good 
business men as the city fellows, and can do 
just as big things with equal efficiency and 
silence. ’ ’ 

“But the trouble is,” replied the farmer, 
“so many of the farmers would have to go to 
the bank to borrow the money with which to 
buy their stock, or their seeds, or both. It 


200 


PLAYING 


would be difficult to keep this matter secret 
from the banker.’’ 

“Not under the plan I have in mind. The 
success of this enterprise is going to depend to 
a large degree upon the number who come into 
it. The farmer of limited finances must have 
an equal opportunity, as far as possible. We 
will set a minimum of ten shares at ten dollars 
each. Most any farmer can get together one 
hundred dollars, without having to give the 
entire history of his life. To make the matter 
all the more fair the maximum of one hundred 
shares for any one stockholder will be pre¬ 
scribed. This makes it easy also to pay in real 
cash, avoiding the clearing of checks through 
the banks.” 

“But what about the seeds? It costs more 
money to buy them than to buy the stock.” 

“There’s where we are in luck again. I 
happen to have intimate connection with 
sources that will sell the company all the seeds 
it will need for distribution to its stockholders, 
and will grant credit until after harvest. The 
company will then pay for the seeds, and di¬ 
vide the net profits pro rata among the stock¬ 
holders.” 


THE GAME 


201 


“If we farmers had not been stung on this 
thing once, I would say that your plan would 
work. ’ 9 

“You farmers are not the only ones who 
have had such a sad experience. To offset that 
objection which we have met in several places, 
we have devised a plan by which a bonus of 
five dollars per acre harvested would be guar¬ 
anteed. In addition every stockholder is fur¬ 
nished with a set of instructions based upon the 
most modern methods of preparing the soil, 
planting, cultivating and harvesting 'beets.” 

“Pm satisfied. You can count me in.” 

“That’s fine. How about some of your 
friends? Can you get some of them in¬ 
terested?” 

“I think so.” 

“That’s business. Let’s put this thing over 
in a hurry. The quicker the better. Bring 
your friends to the Center Township Hall next 
Thursday afternoon for the reorganization— 
and impress upon them that, to avoid any com¬ 
plications, strict secrecy must be maintained, 
and payments must be made in real cash. This 
will be a master stroke for the farmers.” 

Radiating enthusiasm and instilling confi- 


202 


PLAYING 


deuce, Claro Samp kept busy every minute. 
He found the usual number of farmers who bite 
at any proposition that comes along, just like 
their city brothers. 

Of one upon whom he culled, however, he 
neglected to ask the all-important question re¬ 
garding the ownership of the land. This man 
happened to be a tenant—a loyal, careful, ca¬ 
pable, honest tenant. The owner lived in the 
town in question, had been in business there for 
many years, and was known and loved by the 
majority of the residents of the county. Most 
people called her “Mary Ann” and she liked 
it. She was surprised when any one addressed 
her as “Mrs. Loveman.” 

Her tenant immediately reported the visit 
of Sampson. She cautioned him more strongly 
than Sampson had, to maintain silence. 

She was a passenger on the first out-going 
train for Chicago, where she called upon a one- 
time resident of her home town. On her way 
home, she paid a visit to the State Agricultural 
College. 

The day of the reorganization meeting ar¬ 
rived. Sampson was in fine spirits. So sure 
was he of the success of his scheme that he had 


TEE GAME 


203 


gone so far as to ascertain the price of a ticket 
to South America. 

He stood at the front door of the hall and 
greeted each one who entered. He kept count, 
and when the number had reached eighty, he 
did some mental arithmetic. Eighty at one 
hundred dollars meant eight thousand dollars. 
Eighty at one thousand dollars meant eighty 
thousand dollars. The sum of these eighty- 
eight thousand dollars, or a mean of forty-four 
thousand dollars. If this should fall off fifty 
percent, he felt that he had copped twenty-two 
thousand dollars very easily. 

‘ * Gentlemen, ’’ said Sampson, as he rapped 
on the table for order, “this is going to be a 
great success. I estimate that we will make 
our get-away with fifty thousand dollars. Who 
will you have for chairman of the meeting ?” 

“There won’t be any chair-mcm; it will be 
a chair-wom&w. ” 

Every eye in the room turned toward a side 
entrance and beheld Mary Ann Loveman. She 
walked right up to Sampson, saying: 

“Mr. Claro Samp, let me introduce myself. 
I am Mary Ann Loveman—promoter. Be 
seated a few moments.” 


204 


PLAYING 


She then addressed the farmers: 

“I need no introduction to you. I’ve lived 
here all my life, and that means longer than 
the most of you have lived anywhere. I’ve 
never lied to you, nor cheated you out of a 
penny. I have always had a lot of respect 
for you, but today, I think you are a nice bunch 
of suckers. I thought some of you had brains, 
but I doubt it now.” 

Her remarks seemed to irritate some of them. 
One man interrupted her thus: 

4 ‘This is a meeting of farmers. May I ask 
what right you have here?” 

“You think I am an intruder do you? I’m 
not. I’m a farmer. Just look out that east 
window. Ail that land belongs to me. My 
tenant had a visit from Mr. Sampson and re¬ 
ported it to me.” 

She paused a moment. 

“Any more questions?” 

As there semed to be none, she continued: 

“I obtained an advance copy of this Claro 
Samp proposal, which you fellows have gone 
so wild about. There’s a bunch of them on the 
table there, which he was going to let you take 
home with you. Let’s analyze it. Each of you 


THE GAME 


205 


came here to part with cash from one hundred 
dollars to one thousand dollars for a scrap 
of paper—just that. You can’t understand the 
English language. When he called this meet¬ 
ing to order, he told you he would make a ‘ get¬ 
away with fifty thousand dollars’ but you didn’t 
‘get it.’ Who were you going to {pay this 
money to? Here he sits — self-appointed 
trustee.” 

She pointed an accusing finger at Sampson. 

A murmur ran through the room, which she 
stilled with uplifted hand. 

“How about this advance of seeds? The 
price isn’t named anywhere. It isn’t even 
stated that this purchase shall be made at the 
market price. It doesn’t say that beet seeds 
are to be furnished. For all some of you would 
ever have known until your crop began to grow 
—if you ever received any seed at all—you 
could have been handed all kinds and varieties 
of weed seeds—and a pretty mess your farms 
would have been.” 

She laughed. 

“I can’t help it, men. This bonus offer is 
good. Of course you grabbed it because 
it sounds like easy money—but it does not 


206 


PLAYING 


say that it will be paid, only that it ‘would be 
guaranteed .’ When? By whom? To whom? 
Do you want to pay a bonus of five dollars per 
acre to this promotor for the privilege of till¬ 
ing your own land? 

“ ‘Net profits/ Why, men (I ought to call 
you babies), if this fellow had reopened that 
factory, there would not have been any net 
profits. Who was to be the manager? Claro 
Samp of course. 

“Just one more thing. I don’t find any stip¬ 
ulation about acquiring the factory property, 
which of course would he necessary, or a lease 
of it, before it could be reopened and operated. 
Does any one here know who owns that 
property?” 

She waited a moment, but no one responded. 

“I own it. I bought it four days ago. Here 
is the deed to it.” 

A variety of emotions could be seen on the 
faces of the men—anger, embarrassment, cha¬ 
grin, amusement. Two or three of the younger 
and more hot-headed started down the aisle 
toward Sampson. 

“Just a minute, boys; go back to your 
places.” 


THE GAME 


207 


Turning to Sampson, she said: 

“Now, Mr. Promoter, I have never sent a 
man to prison yet. I’m too old to start that 
game now. You have just about time enough 
to catch the next train south. You better do 
it, and if you have enough money to buy that 
ticket to South America, you can make good on 
the inquiries you made a few days ago.” 

After the dust of his flivver had blown away, 
“Mary Ann” again spoke to the farmers: 

“Let’s talk business. You seem to want to 
gamble—to take a chance with your hard 
earned money. Since you were so willing to 
do so with a stranger, you ought to be more 
willing to do so with me. You have indicated 
that you would like to have that sugar factory 
reopened. I see no reason why it should not 
be done. I think it would be a profitable ven¬ 
ture. 

“I’ll make a proposition. I will put in that 
old factory at just what it cost me, and I bought 
it for twenty-five cents on the dollar. You 
raise a like amount among yourselves, and 
we will raise the other third in town, if I have 
to put it up myself, and I won’t, because I’ve 
already got it tentatively pledged. 


208 


PLAYING THE GAME 


“We will enter into a three-year agreement. 
If there is a profit at the end of each year, we 
will put half of it in an interest-drawing sur¬ 
plus, for future expansion, or for emergencies. 
The other half we will divide in correct pro¬ 
portion among ourselves. 

“If there is a deficit the first year, I’ll ad¬ 
vance it. If there is one the second year, the 
town-stockholders will advance it. If a deficit 
shows up the third year, we will put all three 
of them together, proportion them, pay up and 
quit. But, if you will do your part, and if 
God and nature are good to us, there will not 
be any deficits. 

“Instead of these printed instructions you 
were going to pay so dearly for, there will be 
some institutes held for you by experts and 
furnished free by the State Agricultural Col¬ 
lege. We will get a general manager who 
knows the business, and will run this plant on 
business principles. Are you as game sports 
as I am!” 

“Three cheers for ‘Mary Ann’,” some one 
shouted, and they were enthusiastically and 
energetically given. 


THE DESERTED TWENTY 


t 
























. 














. 
































. 






















































■ 





























































J^EWSBOY, orphan, ward, college graduate, 
lawyer, judge, farmer—such is the history 
in brief of Donald Madden. 

A day of dark, evil forebodings had dawned. 
There was no little surprise, consternation, 
shaking of heads, prophesying, and speculative 
conversation among the inhabitants—five hun¬ 
dred in number—of the town of Norville, lying 
fifty miles from Danville, the nearest railroad 
city. The cause of all this hubbub was the 
news that a young man from the east—Donald 
Madden — had purchased “The Deserted 
Twenty.” 

The old men discussed it in front of the 
post-office, while waiting for the mail auto 
which honored the town with a visit twice a 
week. 

The old women talked about it over back 
fences, or restlessly circulated among their 
neighbors to see if they had heard it. 

The young folks argued over it wherever 
they happened to gather. 

A variety of things was said, but, in the final 
analysis, there was a unanimity of belief that 


212 


PLAYING 


something terrible and awful [was going to 
happen. 

Many, many years before the time of this 
story, a man by the name of Gilmore, so it 
had been handed down by word of mouth, had 
owned a large tract of land, in the very center 
of which was laid out a field of twenty acres. 
In the center of this field he had built a large 
stone house, palatial in its appointments. He 
had beautified the grounds, built large barns 
and sheds. It was in fact a very finely 
equipped country home. 

After he had been living here for a number 
of years, a strange, incomprehensible, unnatural 
occurrence set aghast the whole community. 

Gilmore had never mingled very intimately 
with the folks living in the vicinity of his dwell¬ 
ing. His friends were residents of distant 
cities. It was not uncommon for him to en¬ 
tertain large companies of them, for days at 
a time. It was the night of the first day of 
one of the seasons of entertainment. There 
had been singing, dancing, and games. De¬ 
licious viands and sparkling wine graced his 
table. 


THE GAME 


213 


It was nearing midnight. The entire com¬ 
pany was assembled in one room, ready for the 
final event of the evening. It was Gilmore’s 
custom to thus assemble his guests every night, 
and suggest some topic, about which the whole 
company talked for an hour before the party 
broke up and retired. 

He announced to them that the week before 
he had been to a city, and had made the rounds 
of some second-hand stores, in search of what¬ 
ever he might find in the way of any antique 
specimen. The collecting of such was a favor¬ 
ite pastime of his. He had found a goblet, 
made of silver, peculiarly shaped, on which 
were carved symbols and figures, entirely dif¬ 
ferent from any he had ever seen before. 

The shop-keeper, who evidently had no ap¬ 
preciation of such things, because he parted 
with it for a mere pittance, could not tell any¬ 
thing about it, save that it was on the shelf 
when he purchased the store. 

He stated that he had been unable to de¬ 
termine in what century the goblet had been 
fashioned. As there were those present who 
were connoisseurs of such things, he purposed 


214 


PLAYING 


to produce the specimen in their midst and see 
if any of them could assist him in determining 
its age. He hade them all remain seated, as it 
would take him only a moment to bring it in. 

As soon as he had left the room, the guests 
began talking— some expressing much pleasure 
at seeing the article about to be brought be¬ 
fore them, others discussed painting, others 
violins, and some, certain renowned vessels of 
silver and gold which it had been their privi¬ 
lege to see, the artistic productions of ages 
remote. The time passed quickly. Some one, 
less interested in such things than the rest, ob¬ 
served that their host had been gone quite a 
while. A sudden hush swept the room. The 
time-piece showed that Gilmore had been gone 
thirty minutes. Everybody exchanged with 
everybody-else a questioning look. Some one 
broke the silence with: “I wonder what has 
detained him?” 

“ Maybe someone misplaced the goblet and 
he is hunting for it.” 

4 ‘ Could any accident have befallen him?” 

It is on such occasions that imaginations run 
amuck. 

“I heard a scream a while ago,” said one. 


THE GAME 


215 


“No, that was the howling of the wind, ,, re¬ 
plied somebody. 

‘ ‘ I am sure I heard the report of a pistol.’ ’ 

“He has imbibed quite freely tonight. Per¬ 
haps he has gone to sleep somewhere .’ 9 

During the evening, a storm had been gather¬ 
ing. At this moment, it burst in all its fury. 
The house trembled on its foundation, the 
thunder rolled with a loudness of supreme in¬ 
tensity, the lightning flashed, the rain beat on 
the window-panes. 

One of the guests looked out of a window and 
declared that she saw, when the lightning 
flashed, the body of a man, dangling from the 
limb of a tree. 

The colored house-maid rushed in, wringing 
her hands in an agony of terror, and expressed 
her belief that the Judgment Day had come. 

A feeling of fear had, by this time, taken 
hold of the entire company. It was an instinc¬ 
tive realization of some black, overshadowing 
misfortune, an appalling sense of disaster, 
stalking giant-like into their presence. The 
men trembled and their knees smote together. 
The women became hysterical. Some of them 
fainted. Others, acknowledging the greater 


216 


PLAYING 


strength of man, with an inherent feeling that 
he is the protector of woman, threw their arms 
around some man’s neck, regardless of whose 
husband or lover he might be. 

Those of the men, who were able to maintain 
an appearance of calmness, instituted a search 
for the missing host. Every room, every 
closet, every corner—the whole house, from 
garret to cellar, was carefully inspected, but 
with no success. 

The yard, the barn, the sheds, every con¬ 
ceivable and many inconceivable places were 
looked into, but Gilmore could not be found. 

At daybreak the following morning, the 
guests took their departure, pale, wan, and 
dazed from the horror and mystery of it all. 

An alarm was spread throughout the sur¬ 
rounding country, near and far, but no trace 
of the man was discovered. 

When all hope was gone, the eldest son took 
up the duty of setting his father’s business af¬ 
fairs in order. 

The father had been an austere man in many 
ways. To say the least, he was extremely ec¬ 
centric and peculiar. He did not tell even the 
members of his family anything of his affairs. 


THE GAME 


217 


He had a large tin box, which he kept locked, 
and himself carried the key. It was forbidden 
that any hands bnt his should touch this box. 

One night the son bid the rest of the family 
“good-night” and went into the library. He 
pried open this secretive box in search of any 
papers he might find, relating to his father’s 
business. 

The next morning, when a servant went to 
his room to summon him to breakfast, he found 
an unoccupied bed. It had not been slept in 
at all the night before. Search was made of 
the library, entering which the night before 
was the last seen of the son. The house was 
ransacked but he could not be found. He had 
disappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as 
had his father. 

Everything about the house became asso¬ 
ciated, in the thoughts of the family, with that 
which is uncanny, weird, and terrifying. It 
was unbearable. Even the atmosphere seemed 
surcharged with horror. 

The house was deserted. The lands were 
put up for sale. All were purchased readily, 
save the twenty acres on which the house of ill- 


218 PLAYING 

fate stood. No one wanted that. No one 
would accept it as a gift. 

So it stood there for many years, a veritable 
tomb of disaster. No one went near it. It was 
shunned as a leprous something. Many fan¬ 
tastic tales were told about it. Children were 
warned to stay away from it. If they were 
disobedient, a threat to take them over to and 
leave them on 4 ‘The Deserted Twenty” had the 
effect of successful correction more than any 
other measure that might have been resorted 
to. 

The grass and weeds grew up until the first 
story was hidden from view. The untrimmed 
trees all but hid the rest of it. 

And now comes young Madden and pur¬ 
chases this “evil-filled, terror-stricken tract.” 

No wonder the old and the young in Nor- 
ville talked about it. No wonder a mortal 
dread possessed them. Superstition concern¬ 
ing this place was an inherent part of the be¬ 
liefs of the present population. They felt that 
their peaceful life was to be torn from its foun¬ 
dation. With the coming of Madden, the house 
would be reopened, and all felt that some new 
and awful tragedy would be let loose. There 
were those who asserted that the newcomer 


THE GAME 


219 


was virtually committing suicide, because it 
had always been the head of the family living 
in this house that had come to a dire end. 
There was no telling the amount of calamity 
this house contained. 

They made up their minds that as soon as 
Madden came to take possession they would 
dissuade him. But they did not know Donald 
Madden and the experiences he had been 
through. 

He was born in an Eastern state, of poor 
parentage, in a city of fifty thousand inhab¬ 
itants. His father was a day-laborer, and was 
continually changing from one place of employ¬ 
ment to another. His tendency to drink too 
much and too often caused his employers to 
discharge him. The end that so often comes 
to such as he, was his fate. He was killed in 
a brawl in a saloon. 

Donald Madden was at this time twelve years 
old. His mother, being in very poor health, 
was unable to work steadily, but did what she 
could. Her meager earnings, supplemented 
by what Donald made selling papers before and 
after school, in a scant way, supplied food and 
clothing. The ravages of ill-health finally con 


220 


PLAYING 


quered, and Donald was left alone in the world, 
and consequently became a charge of the court. 

When he was brought before the magistrate, 
the brightness of his eyes, the serious and 
earnest look on his face, attracted Judge Wil¬ 
son, who decided not to dispose of Donald’s 
case until at the afternoon session. 

When court adjourned at noon, he took Don¬ 
ald with him to a store owned by a friend. The 
merchant, the judge, and Donald went together 
to a restaurant for lunch. Donald was ques¬ 
tioned as to his ambitions in life. He replied 
that he would like to get an education, and some 
day be a judge. 

The proprietor of the store consented to give 
Donald a chance, and in consequence the judge 
made a decree, giving him to the care of the 
merchant. 

He was sent to public school, where he made 
a creditable showing. Plans had been made 
for his advanced education, when adversity 
came along and left the merchant in such fi¬ 
nancial straits that he was unable to see his 
way clear in the matter of paying for a college 
training for Donald. 

Undaunted in purpose and ambition, young 


THE GAME 


221 


Madden determined to work his way. He went 
to a university town. He secured employment 
first as a tender of several furnaces, then he 
worked as a waiter in a cafe, and did various 
other things. In due course of time he com¬ 
pleted the law school. 

He returned to his home-town and began the 
practice of his profession. 

When he was thirty years old, his old friend, 
Judge Wilson, who was still judge of the same 
court, was nominated for governor. Madden 
was chosen as the candidate’s campaign man¬ 
ager. Judge Wilson was elected, and imme¬ 
diately resigned his judicial office. 

Soon after the newly elected governor had 
taken up the duties of the office, he wrote Mad¬ 
den to come down to the capital. When Mad¬ 
den arrived, Governor Wilson asked him if he 
still wanted to he a judge as much as he did the 
day, years ago, when he was given to the care 
of the merchant. When Madden replied in the 
affirmative, the governor said: 

“All right. You may be one. I have a 
judgeship at my disposal, and I am going to 
appoint you. 

“I do not want it.” 


222 


PLAYING 


“Why?” asked the governor. 

4 4 Because I want to he the judge of your old 
court in my home town.” 

44 But that place is filled.” 

4 4 It will be vacant two years from now. I ap¬ 
preciate your kindness, your desire to reward 
me, and all that, but I do not want the office 
by appointment. I want to go before the voters 
at the next election, and win or lose on my own 
merits and responsibility.” 

When the returns came in at the next elec¬ 
tion, Donald Madden was elected by a large 
majority. 

That night he gave to the press this state¬ 
ment: 

44 Years ago I was left an orphan in this town, 
and to the care of the court over which I have 
just been elected to preside. The kindness of 
the then judge of this same court, and of the 
man who took me into his home, cared for me 
as he would have done for his own son, had 
not affliction deprived him of his child, the 
plight of other waifs not so fortunate as I, 
aroused in me the ambition to some day be 
the presiding officer of this court, in order that 
in my own community I could do my part in 


THE GAME 


223 


showing my appreciation of what was done for 
me. I can do this by serving to the utmost of 
my ability, the interests of the orphans and 
homeless that may now come into the care of 
this court. I have realized my ambition, and I 
shall, to the best of my ability, be true in the 
exemplification of it.” 

Madden was naturally thrifty. He had put 
into saving as much as he could from time to 
time. After he had been judge for a few 
months he decided that it was time for him to 
take unto himself a wife. Because they had 
“kept company” for several years it was not 
a surprise at all to the community when he and 
Governor Wilson’s daughter got married. The 
only surprising thing about it was that they 
had not married sooner, because everybody 
knew they would some time. 

At the next election, there was a landslide. 
The party of opposite political faith to that to 
which Madden belonged came into power from 
Constable to President, and Madden returned 
to the practice of law. 

In connection with one of the cases which 
Madden undertook it was necessary for him to 
make a trip to Danville. There he met, by 


224 


PLAYING 


chance, John Martin, an old classmate, at whose 
home he was entertained for dinner. They 
did the customary and natural thing—that of 
reminiscing concerning school days. They had 
had a mysterious professor who was an ardent 
devotee of Edgar Allen Poe and his mysteries. 

This professor reveled in mystery. Martin 
remarked that he knew about a mystery of the 
Poe variety which would have certainly de¬ 
lighted the old professor, and proceeded to re¬ 
late to Madden the story of “The Deserted 
Twenty.” Madden was fascinated, and the 
next day they drove out to Norville and saw 
the deserted tract. Then and there some ideas 
he had recognized only vaguely as having ex¬ 
istence began to take definite form. He had al¬ 
ways thought a country home would be a very 
desirable thing, but he had never felt financially 
able to purchase one. He had always thought 
he would like to live out west. Lately he had 
considered just a little the advisability of mov¬ 
ing to a larger city. 

He and Martin discussed these ideas, which 
resulted in the following conclusions: 

1st: Martin was to find out the price of ob- 


THE GAME 


225 

taining title to the deserted tract and an ad¬ 
joining forty acres. 

2nd: An estimate was to be made of cost 
of putting the house and the outbuildings into 
repair. 

3rd: If Madden should make the purchase 
he and Martin would form a law-partnership 
in Danville. 

In a few days Madden received a letter from 
Martin of which the following is a part: 

“I find that the deserted tract can be pur¬ 
chased for twenty dollars an acre; that a rough 
estimate for repairs amounts to between five 
thousand and six thousand dollars; that the ad¬ 
joining forty acres can be purchased for sixty 
dollars an acre. The total amount needed 
should not exceed $10,000. 

“A public utility corporation here has just 
offered me their legal business. Last year 
they paid out $15,000 for legal services. I can 
not take their work in addition to my present 
practice, but if you decide to join with me, we 
together can take it on.” 

Madden was practical. He figured up how 
much he could get for his present home, how 
much it would cost to move, how much it was 


226 


PLAYING 


costing him and his wife to run the house, 
clothe themselves, etc. He took into account an 
estimate of added expense of living in a larger 
city, the cost of the land he was purchasing 
and the outlay for a hired man and upkeep of 
the farm. In short, he totaled his assets and 
estimated his expected income. Over against 
this he made a liberal estimate of expenses and 
liabilities which he might expect if he made the 
deal. He decided to take the chance, and a 
few weeks later found him located in Danville 
and the owner of the land in question. 

Soon workmen went from Danville to ‘‘The 
Deserted Twenty,” cleared away the weeds, cut 
the tall grass and trimmed the trees. Me¬ 
chanics began the task of remodeling and re¬ 
pairing. 

One day a piercing shriek was heard; a work¬ 
man came rushing from the building, in a par¬ 
oxysm of fright. When the others had quieted 
him, he explained that, in tearing out a parti¬ 
tion, he had come on the skeleton of a man. 
An investigation was made. It was true—only 
there were two skeletons. 

The mystery was solved, and the explana¬ 
tion, which seemed the only reasonable one and 


THE GAME 


227 


which' was sufficiently plausible to change the 
attitude of Norville’s population, was summed 
up thus: 

The elder Gilmore had built a secret vault. 
When he had gone in there for the goblet, in 
some way he had become imprisoned, and had 
smothered to death. 

But how came the son’s bones there? 

A paper on the floor, though yellow with 
age, could yet be deciphered. Undoubtedly, 
when going through his father’s papers in the 
tin box, the son had discovered this particular 
paper, which gave him a clue to the mysterious 
manner in which his father had disappeared. 
The paper had on it these words: 

11 The vault—N. W. corner library—3 ft. S— 
remove 1 in. of moulding—press spring.” 

The son, finding this clue, followed it. He 
expected to find the body of his father, and did, 
but the shock of it, added to the already ex¬ 
hausted condition of his nervous system, caused 
him to fall forward in a swoon. The door 
swung shut, suffocating him also. 

The old men discussed it in. front of the 
postoffice; the old women talked about it over 


228 


PLAYING THE GAME . 


back fences; the young folks argued it wher¬ 
ever they happened to be, and each one claimed 
that he or she had always said the mystery was 
not so big and would some day have a simple 
solution. 


THE WHIPPOORWILLS 























“<gAME old rattle-trap bus, same old driver, 
‘same old streets, same hotel, same porter, 
same old man behind the desk. Same girl?” 
Thus mused Marvin Martin, as he signed the 
hotel register. 

“Reservation, Mr. Martin?” inquired the 
clerk with the same squeaky voice. 

i No. Can you put me in the same room I 
had last summer—number three hundred and 
thirteen?” 

“Sorry sir, but that room is taken, tempo¬ 
rarily. I can put you in four hundred and 
twenty-three, until three hundred and thirteen 
is vacated, and then move you down.” 

“That will have to do,” replied Martin, with 
a disappointed air. “But I did so want the 
same room.” 

Upon reaching his room, Martin went at once 
to the window. He was delighted to find that 
he could much better observe those same gray 
towers. He immediately telephoned the clerk 
that he was entirely satisfied with his room and 
did not wish to be changed at all. 

He went back to the window, and soon his 


232 


PLAYING 


thoughts were wholly taken up with reminis¬ 
cence of his last year’s vacation and the inter¬ 
vening months. 

He had come to Lake Point a year ago as the 
result of a game of chance—a number of ad¬ 
vertisements, shuffled in and drawn from a hat. 
He had arrived at night. The next morning 
he had gone to the window to see what his 
gamble had brought him. The first things to 
meet his gaze were two ponderous towers— 
they were really two huge chimneys—but he 
always thought of them as towers—towering 
high in the sunlight, bounded by tall trees on 
the east and the west, and seeming to almost 
touch the sky, which horizoned with the lake 
to the north at what appeared to be only a few 
feet beyond them. Those towers fascinated 
him. His imagination pictured them as goal 
posts with the low nestling roof representing 
the cross bar, or as wide-set gate-posts, pro¬ 
viding an entrance to a city, or a castle, or 
some spectacle, adventure or new experience. 

As he had done so many times during the 
past twelve months, Martin again recalled his 
conversation with the squeaky voiced clerk, 
which had strengthened the spell, born at the 


THE GAME 


233 


first sight of those chimneys—an invisible in¬ 
fluence that was overpowering him and making 
him strangely curious and fervently impatient 
to understand it. 

“The house with the gray chimneys, Mr. 
Martin? It belongs to Schuyler Tyrrell—a 
very rich man—who lives there with his daugh¬ 
ter Maybell,” the clerk had informed him. 
“The whole community loves Maybell. She is 
by far the most beautiful and most sensible girl 
in this town, and not equaled in any way by 
any of the transient young ladies, but,”—look¬ 
ing thoughtfully into space, apparently for¬ 
getful of Martin’s presence—“it’s too bad— 
too had.” 

‘What’s too bad?” asked Martin. 

“Pardon me, sir,” he replied confusedly. 
“Of course you don’t know. I was just think¬ 
ing of the rumor that she is to be married.” 

“That isn’t surprising, especially if she is as 
wonderful as you have described her.” 

“It isn’t that. Of course it is none of my 
business and wholly out of place for me to dis¬ 
cuss it. But, confidentially, it seems a shame 
for her father to let her—she is only eighteen— 


234 


PLAYING 


marry a man much older than she—twenty 
years, if a day.’ ’ 

Martin’s retrospection of his previous stay 
at Lake Point brought to mind another scene. 
He recalled it as vividly as if it were being 
thrown on a screen before him. One evening 
the clerk had beckoned him to the desk and had 
said: 

“Seated at the table in the dining room, di¬ 
rectly in front of the door, are four persons. 
The young lady with dark hair, brown eyes, 
and wearing a red dress and hat, is Maybell. 
The older lady is Coufitess Castenoff. The 
others are Mr. Tyrrell and Mr. Berkeley 
Stephens, Maybell’s fiance.” 

“The Countess—is she a relative!” inquired 
Martin. 

“No. There is a rumor that Mr. Tyrrell 
met her somewhere on one of his trips and that 
she is quite interested in him. As to his in¬ 
terest in her, it seems to consist only of an oc¬ 
casional dinner with her here at the hotel.” 

The only impression a look at the Countess 
made on Martin was that she was rather tall, 
slim and blonde. He perceived Mr. Tyrrell to 
be short, fat and bald. 


THE GAME 


235 


He did not consider Berkeley Stephens much 
to look at—just ordinary. He hated him, 
thought he would like to choke him, considered 
shooting a better method of killing him, and 
finally decided that a slow torturous death 
would be the proper process. 

Martin dwelt long over the memory of how 
marvelously wonderful and beautiful Maybell 
had appeared to him, and how he had turned 
away sorry that he had seen her, for the sight 
of her loveliness had created a world of misery 
for him. 

And now on the first afternoon of his second 
vacation at Lake Point, Martin could not help 
smiling at the thought of that broken, vear-old 
resolution of his—never to come here again. 
He had cursed his luck a year ago. Would he 
now have cause to find fault with the president 
of his concern for promoting him to the general 
managership, and ordering him away for a 
month of rest, preparatory to assuming his new 
duties ? Or would the editor of the Lake Point 
News get maligned for having written him a 
request for renewal of his subscription, which 
had prompted him to open a copy of that paper 
—a thing he had not done since the marriage of 


236 


PLAYING 


Maybell had been chronicled. This time he had 
read the account of the death of Schuyler Tyr¬ 
rell. One clause— 4 ‘survived only by a daugh¬ 
ter, Maybell”—had struck him as very queer. 
Why didn’t it read, “Mrs. Berkeley Stephens?” 

‘ ‘ That statement means something unusual— 
I know it—I’m going to find out what it is,” is 
what Martin said to himself as he started for 
Lake Point. He now repeated it and added: 
“That is what I’m here for, and I’ll never find 
out standing here, lost in reverie, gazing at 
those gray chimneys.” 

After dinner, Martin strolled out to the front 
of the hotel, intent upon finding a quiet spot 
where he could continue his endeavors to for¬ 
mulate some feasible plan of action. 

“Why, there’s Mr. Martin,” he heard some 
one say. 

He recognized, coming toward him, Genevieve 
Carlton, the vivacious daughter of his boss. 

“What are you doing here, Mr. Martin?” 

“Exiled for a month by the Big Chief. I 
am equally surprised to see you here. I 
thought you and your mother were touring in 
the east.” 

“We are on our way home. When we got 


THE GAME 


237 


back as far as Detroit, I was so anxious to see 
an old friend of mine who lives here, I per¬ 
suaded Mama to drive around this way. May- 
bell—Mrs. Stephens—has gone inside for a 
moment. We are spending the night with her. 
Here she comes now. Maybell, I want you to 
meet the general-manager-to-be of Papa’s fac 
tory.” 

Allowing just time for acknowledgment of 
the introduction she hurried on. 

6 ‘ It’s so awfully good to see some one from 
home. How’s Papa? This sure is great. 
Papa told you about making you general man¬ 
ager, didn’t he? Oh, gee, I’d like to talk your 
arm off for an hour.” 

“If Mr. Martin will grant us the pleasure of 
going home with us you can have your wish, 
Genevieve,” Maybell interrupted. 

When Martin was back at the hotel that night, 
he remembered just one thing that had hap- 
pended during the evening—he had challenged 
Maybell Stephens to a game of golf the next 
afternoon and she had accepted. 

Regardless of the fact that he had twice won 
the championship in his own club, and in spite 
of the fact that he played with his usual ac- 


238 


PLAYING 


curacy and form, he was beaten that afternoon. 

“Of course I am glad to have won, Mr. Mar¬ 
tin, ’ ’ she said, 4 4 but it upsets my plans. I was 
so sure that I would lose and would have to 
buy the dinners that I told my aunt to meet us 
at the hotel. I am . . . ” 

“Whatever you were going to say, you can 
just forget. I am more than delighted to buy 
three dinners instead of two. It is worth it 
and then some to be defeated, as I have been 
this afternoon. I only hope the opportunity 
will present itself, before my vacation is over, 
to get even with you.’ ’ 

“Well, let’s see. This is Tuesday. WTiat do 
you say to another game Friday V 9 
“Fine,” Martin answered. “In the mean¬ 
time I will get a little practice.” 

When he bade them good-night at their car, 
Maybell’s aunt told Martin she would expect 
him to dinner with them Friday evening. 

Time dragged terribly for Martin until Fri¬ 
day afternoon. It then exceeded all speed lim¬ 
its, and before he knew it, he had lost again to 
Maybell, and had partaken of a wonderful din¬ 
ner at her home. 


THE GAME 


239 


“I think Genevieve knows you pretty well,” 
Maybell remarked after dinner that evening. 

“Miss Vivacity has been talking about me, 
has she?” 

“Just a very little bit. She says you are 
so even tempered. If I were a man and had 
lost twice in succession to a mere woman, I 
think I would be somewhat ill-tempered over 
it.” 

“It makes a lot of difference who the victor 
is, Mrs. Stephens.” 

“Sentimental turn of mind?” she queried, 
banteringly. 

“No, not at all. But you have given me a 
chance to make a confession. I have loved you 
for a year. As soon as I read of your father’s 
death—in an old issue of the paper, as I have 
since discovered—I was possessed by a feeling 
that there is a mysterious something hovering 
over you. That thought and the hope that I 
might be of some assistance is what brought 
me back here. No such opportunity has arisen. 
Under the circumstances, impelled toward you 
as I am, I know that it is the wise thing for me 
to go away, and that is what I am going to do 
tomorrow. I hope I may take with me the 


240 PLAYING 

knowledge that you have not heard my recital 
with resentment.” 

She was quite thoughtful for several minutes. 

4 4 There is no resentment, Mr. Martin. I be¬ 
lieve that many virtues, and many emotions as 
well, are oftentimes almost instantly recog¬ 
nized—make themselves known. 1 consider it 
perfectly possible for one at first sight to dis¬ 
cern sincerity and insincerity, real worth and 
sham, love and hate. 

4 4 Perhaps I should blush when I tell you 
that you have meant something to me the last 
three days. I have not tried to define what. It 
is not unnatural for one in unfortunate cir¬ 
cumstances to dream, indefinitely at least, of a 
more fortunate condition in the future. I can¬ 
not say that you have been in the forefront of 
these dreams of mine, nor can I deny you a 
more or less inconspicuous place in the back¬ 
ground of them. There is one positive fact, 
however. I cannot give expression to anything 
of the sort until I locate Berkeley Stephens. I 
wish he were dead. I’ve loathed him from 
the first day of our marriage.” 

4 4 To be frank with you, Mrs. Stephens, my 
misgivings have centered around your husband. 


THE GAME 


241 


I have noted his absence, and that no reference 
has been made to him. Yet I dared not ask 
anything about him.” 

“He left very suddenly after father’s death, 
and in spite of my detective’s diligent but 
quiet efforts, we know nothing of his where¬ 
abouts.” 

Both seemed lost in thought for several mo¬ 
ments. Then Martin spoke: 

“I would so like to help you. I am not a 
detective, of course, and do not at this moment 
know just what I can do, except confer with 
your detective. Would you object?” 

“Not at all. In fact, I would be very grate¬ 
ful for any effort you might desire to make. ’’ 

After an absence of several days, Martin 
and Mr. Sheridan, the detective, returned to 
Lake Point, having made no new discoveries. 

“I assure you, Mrs. Stephens,” spoke Sher¬ 
idan, “that those in my profession never give 
up. But this is the most baffling case on which 
I have ever worked. Indeed I cannot hold out 
much encouragement.” 

Martin and Sheridan sat on the porch at 
the hotel in silence, having several hours to wait 
for their train. 


242 


PLAYING 


Two women were seated farther up on the 
veranda, one of whom Martin was positive he 
had seen before, but he could not remember 
where. Presently the other woman stood up. 
Martin stared a moment, and then punched 
the detective, who with hat over on one side of 
his head, was evidently dozing. 

‘‘Haven’t we seen that sweater before?” he 
asked. 

“What sweater?” sleepily asked Mr. Sher¬ 
idan. 

“Look this way,” advised Martin. 

Sheridan looked and mumbled: “There are 
millions of purple sweaters.” 

“That figure in it looks like a coat-of-arms. 
I just know I have seen it before,” stoutly 
maintained Martin. 

“You’re seeing things. You’re abnormal 
because of your parting with Mrs. Stephens. 
Your imagination is working overtime.” 

Mr. Sheridan smiled mockingly, and asked: 

“Why don’t you imagine something about 
the ether woman, too?” 

“Because I don’t have to,” replied Mar¬ 
tin. “She is Countess Castenoff. I learned 
from the clerk, while you were asleep, that she 


TEE GAME 


243 


just arrived this afternoon, bringing her 
friend with her; that they have Suite A, the 
most expensive one in the hotel. The Countess 
was here last year, though I did not meet her.’ ’ 

“That explains the sweater, then, and the 
coat-of-arms, too. It belongs to the Countess, 
and she has loaned it to her friend. You saw 
it a year ago, if you ever saw it before today.” 

“Maybe so,” returned Martin, not at all 
convinced. 

At dusk the woman started as if for a walk. 
It was Martin’s idea that they should follow 
them. 

“Why?” asked the secret service man. 

“I feel suspicious about them. The Countess 
was friendly with the Tyrrells last summer.” 

Just at this moment, from out a clump of 
trees down by the lake came the shrill, clear 
cry of a bird. 

Sheridan listened a moment. 

“Some bird,” he said. 

And then to Martin: “All right, satisfy 
your curiosity. Perhaps a walk will help your 
mental attitude.” 

When Martin returned, a few paces behind 


244 PLAYING 

the woman, he was no wiser than when he had 
set forth. 

Mr. Sheridan was nowhere to be found. 
About ten o’clock, however, he slid quietly into 
a chair beside Martin. 

“Weill” 

“Nothing,” responded Martin. 

“Just as I thought,” rejoined Sheridan. 

“Two hours yet until train time,” observed 
Martin. 

“Longer than that for us,” replied Sheridan. 

“What do you mean?” 

“That we are not going tonight. I have de¬ 
cided to make one more attempt. At eleven 
o’clock tonight, Mrs. Stephens will put at our 
disposal the room her father used. I am go¬ 
ing to try out an old, old stunt. It takes three 
people, so I will commandeer her chauffeur.” 

It was nearly one o ’clock, when the three men 
heard a small sound like that made by a key 
being slipped into a lock; then that of a door 
being gently opened. 

It was a clear night, and Sheridan, from his 
position on the midlanding of the stairway, 
could see two persons at the door-way. Sher¬ 
idan had chosen his position, because the 


THE GAME 


245 


height of the landing was well above the level 
of the eyes of any one coming in through the 
door. 

At the proper moment,* he deliberately 
switched on the light, at the same time com¬ 
manding the men to put up their hands. The 
acoustic properties of the room were such that, 
as Sheridan had discovered, his words, spoken 
from the position he had selected, seemed to 
come from several directions—a very confus¬ 
ing circumstance, which, added to that of being 
surprised in their attempt, left no choice but 
for the men to obey. 

“Search them,” Sheridan ordered, “and do 
it quickly, as these two gats are itching to 
speak .’ 9 

Martin and the chauffeur, coming up from 
behind, quickly disarmed the two intruders, 
and handcuffed their hands behind them. 

‘ ‘ Fine, ’ ’ said Sheridan, as he came down the 
steps. “You two gentlemen are just in time 
for the big show.” 

When the intruders had been seated on a 
couple of stools especially placed for them, 
Sheridan told the chauffeur to summon Mrs. 
Stephens. When she appeared, somewhat 


246 


PLAYING 


pale, but otherwise betraying no nervousness, 
she occupied a chair facing the prisoners. 

“I am not recognized as very much of an im¬ 
personator, ’’ Sheridan began, “and I hope you 
will pardon any defects I may disclose in this 
role of Master of Ceremonies. There are 
those present who, I am sure can impersonate 
much more effectively than I.” 

Turning to Maybell, he inquired: 

“Mrs. Stephens, when was your father in 
New York the last time?” 

“I don’t remember exactly, but it was more 
than a year ago.” 

“It was on that trip, was it not, that he met 
the Countess Castenoff?” 

“Yes, it was. If the exact date is of any 
consequence, perhaps we could get it from the 
Countess herself, as she arrived in town to¬ 
day. She telephoned me.” 

“Did he, upon his return, mention to you 
that he had purchased a very expensive piece 
of jewelry—a necklace?” 

“No sir,” Maybell replied, with much sur¬ 
prise. 

“The information I gleaned (and the deduc¬ 
tions I have made) while spending some time 


THE GAME 


247 


last evening in Suite B, which is right next to 
Suite A at the hotel, will, no doubt, be inter¬ 
esting to you, and I hope will not shock you 
too much. 

“Countess Castenoff is an impostor. She 
sold to your father the famous Van Tuppen 
necklace, valued at more than one hundred 
thousand dollars, and which very mysteriously 
disappeared more than a year ago.” 

Maybell gave a gasp of surprise, and started 
to speak, but Sheridan motioned her to silence, 
and went on: 

“Along with the necklace there disappeared 
also a purple sweater, fashioned expressly for 
Miss Van Tuppen by a young foreign protege 
of hers. This sweater has a distinguishing pe¬ 
culiarity, in that the youthful maker of it wove 
into it the Van Tuppen coat-of-arms, upside- 
down. Mr. Martin discovered last evening 
that this sweater is a very excellent fit for the 
husband of the Countess.” 

As he quickly undisguised the prisoners, he 
announced: 

“I introduce Jack Crump and wife, known 
to the police as ‘The Whippoorwills 


248 


PLAYING 


44 The Countess and Berkeley Stephens,” ex¬ 
claimed Maybell. 

She stared at them with a piercing look of 
hate. 

44 You devils,” she said, and sank back into 
her chair, sobbing. 

Martin rushed to her side. In a few mo¬ 
ments she was calm again, and Sheridan con¬ 
tinued : 

4 4 The night before your father died, he 
showed Stephens where the necklace was con¬ 
cealed, and told him that, if he should die, 
Stephens was to take charge of it; that if your 
first-born should be a girl, the necklace was to 
be hers, otherwise his original intent—and 
which he had made known to the countess when 
he made the purchase—was to be carried out, 
which was that it should be presented to you on 
your twenty-first birthday.” 

Turning to the fireplace, from which one of 
Martin’s towers rose upward, he said: 

4 4 Mr. Martin, I wish you would please step 
to this side of the fireplace. Put your hand 
on the second stone in the second row above 
the mantel. Press with your fingers on the 


TEE GAME 


249 


top edge of that stone and bring me a small 
jewel ease that will be disclosed.” 

Sheridan opened the case and brought out 
the Van Tuppen necklace. As he held it up 
to their view, he remarked: 

“The search for this has been carried on 
around the globe, and now it is found almost at 
the back door of the place from which it was 
stolen.’ ’ 



























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